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MARIAN GREY 


BY 

MARY J, HOLMES 



**With the wind of Qod in her 
vesture, proclaiming the deathless, 
ever'Soaring spirit o/man.’* — Locke, 



J. H. SEARS ^ COMPANY, Inc, 

PUBLISHERS 
NEW YORK 



Oei«0£h 4, iMi 

muMMnof 







Set up, Printed and Bound at the 
KINGSPORT PRESS 
Kingsport Tennessee 
United States of America 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTBl PAGE 

1. Guardian and Ward 1 

IL Father and Son 9 

III. Death at Redstone Hall 19 

IV. The Bridal Day 29 

V. The Alarm 39 

VI. Marian 45 

VII. Isabel Huntington S3 

VIII. Frederic and Alice 65 

IX. The Yankee Peddler ........ 73 

X. Plans ..*... 85 

XI. The Effect 91 

XII. The House on the River 103 

XIII. The Fever 109 

XIV. The Search 127 

XV. Home Again 133 

XVI. The Governess 141 

XVII. Will Gordon 147 

XVIII. Willis Wooing 155 

XIX. The Birthday 163 

XX. Frederic and Alice Visit Marian’s Old 

Home 179 

XXL The Meeting 185 

XXII. Life at Riverside 193 

XXIII. Redstone Hall 201 

XXIV. Telling Frederic 222 

XXV. ‘The Lost One Has Returned’* .... 233 

XXVI. Ben 239 

iii 




MARIAN GREY 


CHAPTER I 

GUARDIAN AND WARD 

The night was dark and the clouds black and heavy which 
hung over Redstone Hall, whose massive walls loomed up 
through the darkness like some huge sentinel keeping guard 
over the spacious grounds by which it was surrounded. With- 
in the house all was still, and without there was no sound to 
break the midnight silence, save the sighing of the autumnal 
wind through the cedar trees or the roar of the river, which, 
swollen by the recent heavy rains, went rushing on to meet its 
twin sister at a point well known in Kentucky, where our story 
opens, as ^^The Forks of the Elkhorn.'' From one of the lower 
windows a single light was shining, and its dim rays fell upon 
the face of a white-haired man who moaned uneasily in his 
sleep, as if pursued by some tormenting fear. At last, as the 
old-fashioned clock struck the hour of twelve, he awoke, and 
glancing nervously toward the corner, whence the sound pro- 
ceeded, he whispered : 

'‘Have you come again, Ralph Lindsey, to tell me of my 

sinr 

"What is it, Mr. Raymond? Did you call?'' and a young 
girl glided to the bedside of the old man, who, taking her hand 
in his, the better to assure himself of her presence, said: 
"Marian, is there nothing in that corner yonder — nothing with 
silvery hair ?" 

"Nothing," answered Marian, "nothing but the lamp light 
shining on the face of the old clock. Did you think there was 
someone here?" 

"Yes — no — Marian. Do you believe the dead can come back 
to us again — ^when we have done them a wrong — ^the dead who 
are buried in the sea, I mean ?" 

Marian shuddered involuntarily, and cast a timid look to- 

1 


2 


MARIAN GREY 


ward the shadowy corner, then, conquering her weakness, she 
answered : 

^‘No, the dead cannot come back. But why do you talk so 
strangely tonight 

The old man hesitated a moment ere he replied : 

^The time has come for me to speak, so that your father can 
rest in peace. He has been with me more than once in this 
very room, and tonight I fancied he was here again, asking 
why I had dealt so falsely with his child.'^ 

^‘Falsely!'' cried Marian, kissing tenderly the hand of the 
only parent she had ever known. ‘‘Not falsely, I am sure, for 
you have been most kind to me.'^ 

“And yet, Marian,'' he said, “I have done you a wrong — a 
wrong which has eaten into my very soul and worn my life 
away. I did not intend to speak of it tonight, but something, 
I know not what, prompts me to do so, and you must listen. 
On that night when your father died, and when all in the ship, 
save ourselves and the watch, were asleep, I laid my hand on 
his forehead and swore to be faithful to my trust. Do you 
hear, Marian? — faithful to my trust. You don't know what 
that meant, but I know, and I've broken my word — broken 
my oath to the dying — and from that grave in the ocean he 
comes to me sometimes, and with the same look upon his face 
which it wore that summer afternoon when we laid him in the 
sea, he asks me why justice has not been done to you. Wait, 
Marian, until I have finished," he continued, as he saw her 
about to speak; “I know I have not long to live, and I would 
make amends; but, Marian, I would rather — oh, so much 
rather, you should not know the truth until I’m dead. You 
will forgive me then more readily, won't you, Marian ? Prom- 
ise me you will forgive the poor old man who has loved you so 
much — loved you, if possible, better than he loved his only 
son." 

He paused for her reply, and, half bewildered, Marian an- 
swered 

“I don't know what you mean, but if, as you say, a wrong 
has been done, no matter how great that wrong may be, it is 
freely forgiven for the sake of what you've been to me." 

The sick man wound his arm lovingly around her, and, 
bringing her nearer to him, he said: 

“Bless, you, Marian — bless you for that. It makes my 
death bed easier. I will leave it in writing — my confession. I 
cannot tell it now, for I could not bear to see upon your face 
that you despised me. You wrote to Frederic, did you, and 
told him to come quickly?" 


MARIAN GREY 


3 


'Yes/' returned Marian, "I said you were very sick and 
wished to see him at once/' 

For a moment there was silence in the room; then, re- 
moving his arm from the neck of the young girl, the old man 
raised himself upon his elbow, and, looking her steadily in the 
face, said: 

"Marian, could you love my son Frederic?" 

The question was a strange one, but Marian Lindsey was 
accustomed to strange modes of speech in her guardian, and 
with a slightly heightened color she answered quietly: 

"I do love him as a brother — " 

"Yes, but I would have you love him as something nearer," 
returned her guardian. "Ever since I took you for my child 
it has been the cherished object of my life that you should be 
his wife." 

There was a nervous start and an increase of color in 
Marian's face, for the idea, though not altogether disagreeable, 
was a new one to her, but she made no reply, and her guardian 
continued : 

"I am selfish in this wish, though not wholly so. I know 
you could be happy with him, and in no other way can my 
good name be saved from disgrace. Promise me, Marian, that 
you will be his wife very soon after I am dead, and before all 
Kentucky is talking of my sin. You are not too young. You 
will be sixteen in a few months, and many marry as early as 
that.” 

"Does he wish it?” asked Marian timidly. Her guardian 
replied : 

"He has known you but little of late, but when he sees you 
here at home and learns how gentle and good you are, he can- 
not help loving you as you deserve." 

"Yes, he can,” answered Marian with childish simplicity, 
"No man as handsome as Frederic ever loved a girl with an 
ugly face, and I heard him tell Will Gordon, when they spent 
a vacation here, that I was a nice little girl, but altogether too 
freckled, too red-headed and scrawny, ever to make a hand- 
some woman,” and Marian's voice trembled slightly as she re- 
called a speech which had wrung from her many tears. 

To this remark Col. Raymond made no reply, for he, too, 
had cause to doubt Frederic's willingness to marry a girl who 
’boasted so few personal charms as did Marian Lindsey then. 
Rumors, too, he had heard, of a peerlessly beautiful creature, 
with raven hair and eyes of deepest black, who at the North 
kept his son a captive to her will. But this could not be; 
Frederic must marry Marian, for in no other way could the 


4 


MARIAN GREY 


name of Raymond be saved from disgrace, or the vast posses- 
sions he called his own be kept in the family. 

He was about to speak again when a heavy tread in the hall 
announced the approach of someone, and a moment later Aunt 
Dinah, the housekeeper, appeared. 

She had ‘'come to sit up with marster,” she said, “and let 
Miss Marian go to bed, where children like her ought to be.’^ 

Thirteen years before our story opens, Marian had em- 
barked with her father on board a ship which sailed from 
Liverpool to New York. Of that father she remembered little 
save that he was very poor and that he talked of his poverty 
as if it was something of which he was proud. Pleasant 
memories, though, she had of an American gentleman who used 
often to take her on his lap and tell her of the land to which 
she was going ; and when one day her father laid down in his 
berth, and the fever was raging, she remembered how the 
kind man had cared for him, holding his aching head and 
watching by him till he died; then, when it was all over, he 
had taken her again upon his knee and told her she was to be 
his little girl now, and he bade her call him father, telling her 
how her own dead parent had asked him to care for her, who 
in all the wide world had no near relative. Something, too, 
she remembered about an old coarse bag, which had troubled 
her new father very much, and which he had finally put in the 
bottom of his trunk, throwing overboard a few articles of 
clothing to make room for it. The voyage was long and 
stormy, but they reached New York at last, and he took her 
to his home — not Redstone Hall, but an humble farmhouse 
on the Hudson, where he had always lived. Frederic was a 
boy then — a dark-haired, handsome boy of eleven, and even 
now she shuddered as she remembered how he used to tease 
and worry her. Still, he liked her, she was sure, and the first 
real grief she remembered was on that rainy day when, with 
an extra pull at her long curls, he bade her good-bye and 
went off to a distant boarding school. 

Col. Raymond, her guardian, was growing rich, and people 
said he must have entered into some fortunate speculation 
while abroad, for, since his return, prosperity had attended 
every movement; and when, six months after Frederic’s de- 
parture, he went to Kentucky and purchased Redstone Hall, 
then a rather dilapidated building, Mrs. Burt, his house- 
keeper, had wondered where all his money came from, when 
he used to be so poor. They had moved to Kentucky when 
Marian was five and a half years old, and now, after ten years’ 
improvement, there was not in the whole county so beautiful a 


MARIAN GREY 


5 


spot as Redstone Hall, with its terraced grounds, its graveled 
walks, its plots of grass, its grand old trees, its creeping vines, 
its flowering shrubs, and handsome parks in the rear. And this 
was Marian's home; here she had lived a rather secluded life, 
for only when Frederic was with them did they see much 
company, and all the knowledge she had of the world was what 
she gleaned from books or learned from the negress, Dinah, 
who, ^^having lived with the very first families," frequently 
entertained her young mistress with stories of ‘'the quality" 
and the dinner parties at which her presence was once so in- 
dispensable. And Marian, listening to these glowing descrip- 
tions of satin dresses, diamonds, and feathers, sometimes 
wished that she were rich and could have a taste of fashion. 
To be sure, her guardian bought her always more than she 
needed, but it was not hers, and without any particular reason 
why she should do so she felt that she was a dependent and 
something of an inferior, especially when Frederic came home 
from college with his aristocratic manners, his genteel dress, 
his graceful mustache, and the soft scent of perfumery he 
usually carried with him. He was always polite and kind to 
Marian, but she felt that there was a gulf between them. He 
was handsome — she was plain; he was rich — she was poor; 
he was educated, and she — alas, for Marian's education — she 
read a great deal, but never yet had she given herself up to a 
systematic course of study. Governesses she had in plenty, 
but she usually coaxed them off into the woods, or down by 
the river, where she left them to do what they pleased while 
she learned many a lesson from the great book of nature, 
spread out so beautifully before her. All this had tended to 
make and keep her a very child, and it was not until her four- 
teenth year that anything occurred to develop the genuine 
womanly qualities which she possessed. 

By the death of a distant relative, a little unfortunate blind 
girl was left to Col. Raymond's care, and was immediately 
taken to Redstone Hall, where she became the pet of Marian, 
who loved nothing in the whole world as dearly as the poor 
blind Alice. And well was that love repaid; for to the child, 
six years of age, Marian Lindsey was the embodiment of 
everything beautiful, pure and good. Frederic, on the con- 
trary, was a kind of terror to the little Alice. “He was so 
precise and stuck up," she said; “and when he was at home, 
Marian was not a bit like herself." To Marian, however, his 
occasional visits to Redstone Hall were sources of great 
pleasure. To look at his handsome figure, to listen to his voice, 
to anticipate his slightest wish and minister to his wants so 


6 


MARIAN GREY 


quietly that he scarcely knew from whom the attention came, 
was happiness for her, and when he smiled upon her, as he 
often did, calling her “A good little girl,'' she felt repaid for 
all she had done. Occasionally, since her guardian's illness, 
she had thought of the future when some fine lady might pos- 
sibly come to Redstone Hall as its mistress, but the subject 
was an unpleasant one, and she always dismissed it from her 
mind. In her estimation, there were few worthy to be the 
wife of Frederic — certainly not herself — and when the idea 
was suggested to her by his father she regarded it as an utter 
impossibility. Still, it kept her wakeful, and once she said 
softly to herself, ''I could love him so much if he would let 
me, and I should be so proud of him, too." Then, as she re- 
membered the remark she had heard him make to his college 
friend, she covered her face with her hands and whispered 
sadly: "'Oh, I wish I wasn't ugly." Anon, however, there 
came stealing over her the thought that in the estimation of 
others she was not as plain as in that of Frederic Raymond. 
Everybody seemed to like her, and if she were hideous look- 
ing they could not. Alice, whose darkened eyes had never 
looked upon the light of day, and who judged by the touch 
alone, declared that she was beautiful, while old Dinah said 
that age would improve her as it did wine, and that in time 
she would be the handsomest woman in all Kentucky. 

The next day, somewhat to her disappointment, her guard- 
ian did not resume the conversation of the previous night. 
He was convinced that Marian could be easily won, but he 
did not think it wise to encourage her until he had talked with 
his son, whose return he looked for anxiously. But day after 
day went by, and it was all in vain that Alice listened, and 
Marian watched, for the daily stage. It never stopped at their 
gate; and each time that the old man heard them say that it 
had gone by, he groaned afresh, fearing Frederic would not 
come until it was too late, for his sands of life, he knew, were 
running fast away. 

"I can at least tell him the truth on paper," he said to him- 
self at last, "and it may be he will pay more heed to words 
which a dead father wrote than to words a living father 
spoke." 

Marian was accordingly bidden to bring him his little 
writing desk and then to leave the room, for he would be alone 
when he wrote that letter of confession. It cost him many a 
fierce struggle — ^the telling to his son a secret which none save 
himself and God had ever known — aye, which none ever need 
to know if he would have it so — but he would not. The secret 


MARIAN GREY 


7 


had worn his life away, and he must make reparation now. 
So, with the perspiration dropping from every pore, he wrote, 
and, as he wrote, in his disordered imagination there stood be- 
side his pillow the white-haired Englishman, watching care- 
fully to see that justice was done at last to Marian. Recently 
several letters had passed between the father and his son con- 
cerning the marriage of the latter with Marian — a marriage 
every way distasteful to the young man, who, in his answer, 
had said far harsher things of Marian than he usually meant, 
hoping thus to put an end at once to his father’s plan. She 
was ‘‘rough, uncouth, uneducated, and ugly,” he said, “and 
if his father did not give up that foolish fancy he should pos- 
sibly hate the red-headed fright.” 

All this the old man touched upon — quoting the very words 
his son had used, and whispering to himself : “Poor — poor 
Marian, it would break her heart to know that he said that, 
but she never will — she never will” ; and then, with the energy 
of despair, he wrote out the great reason why she must be the 
wife of his son, pleading with him, as only a dying man can 
plead, that he would not disregard the wishes of his father, 
and begging of him to forget the dark-haired Isabel, who, 
though perhaps more beautiful, was not — could not be — as 
pure, as gentle, and as good as Marian. 

The letter was finished, and ’mid burning tears of remorse 
and shame the old man read it through. 

“Yes, that will do,” he said. “Frederic will heed what’s 
written here. He’ll marry her or else make restitution” ; and, 
laying it away, he commenced the last and hardest part of all 
— ^the confessing to Marian how he had sinned against her. 

Although there was no tie of blood between them, the gentle 
young girl had crept down into his inmost heart, where once 
he treasured a little golden-haired girl, who, before Frederic 
was born, died on his lap and went to the heaven made for 
such as she. In the first moments of his bereavement he had 
thought his loss could never be repaired, but when, with her 
soft arms around his neck, Marian Lindsey had murmured in 
his ear how much she loved the only father she had ever 
known, he felt that the angel he had lost was restored to him 
tenfold in the little English girl. He knew that she believed 
there was in him no evil, and his heart throbbed with agony 
as he nerved himself to tell her how for years he had acted a 
villian’s part, but it was done at last, and with a passionate ap- 
peal for her forgiveness, and a request that she would not 
forget him wholly, but come sometimes to visit his lonely 
grave, he finished the letter, and folding it up, wrote upon its 


8 


MARIAN GREY 


back: ‘Tor Marian”; then, taking the one intended for 
Frederic, he attempted to write “For my son,” but the ink 
was gone from his pen — there was a blur before his eyes, 
and though he traced the words, he left no impress and 
the letter bore no superscription to tell to whom it belonged. 
Stepping upon the floor, he dragged his feeble limbs to the 
adjoining room, his library, and placing both letters in his 
private drawer, retired to his bed, where, utterly exhausted, 
he fell asleep. 

When at last he awoke, Marian was sitting by his side, and 
to her he communicated what he had done, telling where the 
letters were, and that if he died ere Frederic’s return, she must 
give the one bearing the words “For my son” to him. 

“You will not read it, of course,” he said, “nor ever seek 
to know what its contents are.” 

Had Marian Lindsey been like many girls, this caution 
would have insured the reading of the letter at once, but she 
fortunately shrank from anything dishonorable, and was 
blessed with but a limited share of woman’s curiosity; conse- 
quently the letter was safe in her care, even though no one 
ever came to claim it. All that afternoon she sat by her 
guardian, and when as usual the stage thundered down the 
turnpike, leaving no Frederic at the door, she soothed him 
with the hope that he would be there tomorrow. But the mor- 
row came and went as did other tomorrows, until at last Col. 
Raymond grew so ill that a telegram was dispatched to the 
truant boy, bidding him hasten if he would see his father again 
alive. 

“That will bring him,” the old man said, while the big tears 
rolled down his wrinkled face. “He’ll be here in a few days,’' 
and he asked that his bed might be moved near the window 
where, propped upon pillows, he watched with childish im- 
patience for the coming of his boy. 


CHAPTER II 


FATHER AND SON 

A TELEGRAM from Frederic, who was coming home at last! 
He would be there that very day, and the inmates of Redstone 
Hall were thrown into a state of unusual excitement. Old 
Dinah, in jaunty turban and clean white apron, bustled her- 
self from the kitchen to the dining room, and from the dining 
room back to the kitchen, jingling her huge bunch of keys 
with an air of great importance, and kicking from under her 
feet any luckless black baby which chanced to be in her way, 
making always an exception in favor of ‘'Victoria Eugenia,” 
who bore a striking resemblance to herself, and would some 
day call her “gran^mam.” Dinah was in her element, for 
nothing pleased her better than the getting up of a “tiptop 
dinner,” and, fully believing that Frederic had been half 
starved in a land where they didn’t have hoe cake and bacon 
three times a day, she determined upon giving him one full 
meal, such as would make his stomach ache for three whole 
hours at least! 

Mr. Raymond, too, was better than usual today, and at his 
post by the window watched eagerly the distant turn in the 
road where the stage would first appear. In her chamber 
Marian too was busy with her toilet, trying the effect of dress 
after dress, and at Alice’s suggestion deciding at last upon a 
pale blue which harmonized well with her fair complexion. 

Suddenly Alice’s quick ear caught the sound of the distant 
stage, and in a few moments Marian, from behind her half- 
closed shutter, was watching the young man as he came 
slowly up the avenue which led from the highway to the 
house. His step was usually bounding and rapid, but now he 
lingered as if unwilling to reach the door. 

“ ’Tis because of his father,” thought Marian. “He fears 
he may be dead.” 

But not of his father alone was Frederic thinking then. It 
was not pleasant, this coming home, for aside from the fear 
that his father might really die was a dread of what that father 
might ask of him to do. For Marian, as a sister, he had no 
dislike, for he knew she possessed many gentle, womanly vir- 

Marian Grey 9 


10 


MARIAN GREY 


tues, but from the thoughts of making her his wife he in- 
stinctively shrank. Only one had the shadow of a claim to 
bear that relation to him, and of her he was thinking that 
September afternoon as he came up the walk. She was poor, 
he knew, and the daughter of his landlady, who claimed a dis- 
tant relationship with his father; but she was beautiful, and 
a queen might covet her stately bearing and polished, graceful 
manner. Into her heart he had never looked, for, satisfied 
with the fair exterior, he failed to see the treachery lurking 
in her large black eyes, or yet to detect the fierce, stormy pas- 
sions which had a home within her breast. 

Isabella Huntin^on, or "‘Cousin Bell,” as he called her, was 
beautiful, accomplished, and artful, and during the year that 
Frederic Raymond had been an inmate of her mother's family 
she had succeeded in so completely infatuating the young 
man that now there was to him but one face in the world, and 
that in fancy shone upon him even when it was far away. 
He had never said to her that he loved her, for, though often 
tempted to do so, something had always interposed itself be- 
tween them, bidding him wait until he knew her better. Con- 
sequently he was not bound to her by words, but he thought it 
very probable that she would one day be his wife, and as he 
drew near to Redstone Hall he could not forbear feeling a 
glow of pride, fancying how she would grace that elegant man- 
sion as its rightful mistress. Of Marian, too, he thought — 
harsh, bitter thoughts, mingled with softer emotions as he 
reflected that she possibly knew nothing of his father's plan. 
He pitied her, he said, for if his father died she would be 
alone in the world. After what had passed, it would hardly 
be pleasant for him to have her there where he could see her 
every day ; she might not be agreeable to Isabel either, and he 
should probably provide for her handsomely and have her live 
somewhere else — at a fashionable boarding school, perhaps ! 

The meeting between the father and son was an affecting 
one — ^the former sobbing like a child, and asking of the latter 
why he had tarried so long. The answer to this question was 
that Frederic had been absent from New Haven for three 
weeks, and that Isabel, who took charge of his letters, neg- 
lected to forward the one written by Marian. At the mention 
of Isabel the old man's cheek flushed, and he said impatiently, 
“The neglect was an unpardonable one, for the letter bore on 
its face ‘In haste.' Perhaps, though, she did it purposely, 
hoping thus to keep you from me.” 

Instantly Frederic warmed up in Isabels defense, saying she 
was incapable of a mean act. He doubted whether she had 


MARIAN GREY 


11 


observed the words '‘In haste'" at all, and if she did she only- 
withheld it for the sake of saving him from anxiety as long 
as possible. 

At this moment there was the sound of little, uncertain feet 
near the door, and Alice groped her way into the room. She 
was a fair, sweet-faced little child, and, taking her upon his 
knee, Frederic kissed her affectionately, and asked her many 
questions as to what she had done since he was home six 
months before. Seldom before had he paid her so much at- 
tention, and feeling anxious that Marian should be similarly 
treated, the little girl, after answering his questions, said to 
him coaxingly : "Won’t you kiss Marian, too, when she comes 
down? She’s been ever so long dressing herself and trying 
to look pretty.” 

Instantly the eyes of the father and the son met — ^those of 
the former expressive of entreaty, while those of the latter 
flashed with defiance. 

"Go for Marian, child, and tell her to come here,” said Mr. 
Raymond. 

Alice obeyed, and as she left the room Frederic said bit- 
terly : "I see she is leagued with you. I had thought better of 
her than that.” 

"No, she isn’t !” cried the father, fearing that his favorite 
project was in danger. "I merely suggested it to her once — 
only once.” 

Frederic was about to reply when the rustling of female 
garments announced the approach of Marian. To Col. Ray- 
mond she was handsome then as, with a heightened bloom 
upon her cheek and a bashful light in her deep blue eyes she 
entered timidly and offered her hand to Frederic. But to the 
jealous young man she was merely a plain, ordinary country 
girl, bearing no comparison to the peerless Isabel. Still, he 
greeted her kindly, addressed to her a few trivial remarks, 
and then resumed his conversation with little Alice, who, feel- 
ing that matters were going wrong, rolled her eyes often and 
anxiously toward the spot where she knew Marian was sitting, 
and when at last the latter left the room, she said to Frederic : 
"Isn’t Marian pretty in her blue dress, with all those curls? 
There are twenty of them, for I heard her count them. Say 
she is pretty, so I can tell her and make her feel good.” 

Frederic would not then have admitted that Marian was 
pretty, even had he thought so, and biting his lip with vexa- 
tion he replied: "I do not particularly admire blue, and I 
detest corkscrew curls.” 

Marian was still in the lower hall and heard both the ques- 


12 


MARIAN GREY 


tion and the answer. Darting up the stairs, she flew to her 
chamber, and throwing herself upon the bed, burst into a pas- 
sionate flood of tears. All in vain had she dressed herself for 
Frederic Raymond's eye; curling her hair in twenty curls, 
even as Alice had said. He hated blue — ^he hated curls — cork- 
screw curls particularly. What could he mean? She never 
heard the term thus applied before. It must have some refer- 
ence to their color, and clutching at her luxuriant tresses she 
would have torn them from her head, had not a little childish 
hand been laid upon hers and Alice's soothing voice mur- 
mured in her ear: ‘'Don’t cry, Marian; I wouldn’t care for 
him. He's just as mean as he can be, and if I owned Red- 
stone Hall I wouldn’t let him live here, would you?” 

“Yes — no — I don't know,” sobbed Marian. “I don’t own 
Redstone Hall. I don’t own anything, and I 'most wish I was 
dead.” 

Alice was unaccustomed to such a burst of passion, and was 
trying to frame some reply when the dinner bell rang, and lift- 
ing up her head Marian said; “Go down, Alice, and tell 
Dinah I can't come, and, if she insists, tell her I won’t!" 

Alice knew she was in earnest, and going below she de- 
livered the message to Dinah in the presence of Frederic, who 
silently took his seat at the table. 

“For the dear Lord's sake, what's happened to her now?" 
said Dinah, casting a rueful glance at Marian’s empty chair. 

“She’s crying,” returned Alice, “and she dislikes somebody 
ill this room awfully; 'tain't you, Dinah, nor 'tain’t me,” and 
the blind eyes flashed indignantly at Frederic, who smiled 
quietly as he replied, “Thank you. Miss Alice.” 

Alice made no reply, and the dinner proceeded in silence. 

After it was over Frederic returned to his father, who had 
been nerving himself for the task he had to perform, and 
which he determined should be done at once. 

“Lock the door, Frederic,” he said, “and then sit by me 
while I say to you what I have so long wished to say.” 

With a lowering brow Frederic complied, and seating him- 
self near to his father, he folded his arms and said: “Go on, 
I am ready now to hear, but if it is of Marian you would 
speak, I will spare you that trouble, father,” and Frederic’s 
voice was milder in its tone. “I have always liked Marian 
very much as a sister, and if it so chances that you are taken 
from us I will be the best of brothers to her. I will care for 
her and see that she does not want. Let this satisfy you, 
father, for I cannot marry her. I do not love her, for I love 
another ; one compared to whom Marian is as the night to the 


MARIAN GREY 


13 


day. Let me tell you of Isabel, father,'’ and Frederic’s voice 
was still softer in its tone. 

The old man shook his head and answered mournfully: 
‘'No, Frederic, were she fair as the morning I could not wish 
her to be your wife. I have never told you before, but I once 
received an anonymous letter concerning this same Isabel, say- 
ing she was treacherous and deceitful, and would lead you on 
to ruin.” 

"The villain I It was Rudolph’s doings,” muttered Frederic ; 
then in a louder tone he said: "I can explain that, I think. 
When Isabel was quite young she was engaged conditionally to 
Rudolph McVicar, a worthless fellow whom she has since dis- 
carded. He is a jealous, malignant creature, and has sworn to 
be revenged. He wrote that letter, I am sure. It is like him.” 

"It may be,” returned the father, "but I distrust this Isabel. 
Her mother, as you are aware, is a distant relative of mine. 
I know her well, and, though I never saw the daughter, I am 
sure she is selfish, ambitious, deceitful, and proud, while 
Marian is so good.” 

"Marian is a mere child,” interrupted Frederic. 

"Almost sixteen,” rejoined the father, "and before you 
marry her she will be older still.” 

"Yes, yes, much older,” thought Frederic, continuing aloud: 
"Listen to reason, father. I certainly do not love Marian, 
neither do I suppose that she loves me. Now, if you have our 
mutual good at heart, you cannot desire a marriage which 
would surely result in wretchedness to both.” 

"I have thought of all that,” returned the father. "A few 
kind words from you would win Marian’s love at once, and 
when once won she would be to you a faithful, loving wife, 
whom you would ere long learn to prize. You cannot treat any 
woman badly, Frederic, much less Marian. I know you would 
be happy with her, and should desire the marriage even though 
it could not save me from dishonor in the eyes of the 
world.” 

"Father,” said Frederic, turning slightly pale, "what do you 
mean? You have in your letters hinted of a wrong done to 
somebody. Was it to Marian? If so, do not seek to sacrifice 
my happiness, but make amends in some other way. Will 
money repair the wrong? If so, give it to her, even to half 
your fortune, and leave me alone.” 

He had touched a tender point, and raising himself in bed, 
the old man gasped: "Yes — yes, boy; but you have no money 
to give her. Redstone Hall is not mine, not yours, but hers. 
Those houses in Louisville are hers, not mine, not yours. 


14 


MARIAN GREY 


Everything you see around you is hers, all hers; and if you 
refuse her, Frederic — hear me — if you refuse this Marian 
Lindsey, strict retribution must be made, and you will be a 
beggar, as it were. Marry her, and as her husband you will 
keep it all and save me from disgrace. Choose, Frederic, 
choose.'’ 

Mr. Raymond was terribly excited, and the great drops of 
perspiration stood thickly upon his forehead, and trickled from 
beneath his hoary hair. 

''Is he going mad?" thought Frederic, his own heart throb- 
bing with a nervous fear of coming evil, but ere he could 
speak his father continued: "Hear my story, and you will 
know how I came by these ill-gotten gains," and he glanced 
around the richly- furnished room. "You know I was sent to 
England, or I could not have gone, for I had no means with 
which to meet the necessary expenses. In the streets of Liver- 
pool I first saw Marian's father, and I mistook him for a 
beggar. Again I met him on board the ship, and making his 
acquaintance found him to be a man of no ordinary intellect. 
There was something about him which pleased me, and when 
he became ill I cared for him as for a friend. The night he 
died we were alone, and he confided to me his history. He 
was an only child, and, orphaned at an early age, became an 
inmate of one of those dens of cruelty — ^those schools on the 
Dotheboys plan. From this bondage he escaped at last, and 
then for more than thirty years employed his time in making 
and saving money. He was a miser in every sense of the 
word, and, though counting his money by thousands — yes, by 
tens of thousands, he starved himself almost to death. No 
one suspected his wealth — not even his young wife, Mary 
Grey, whom he married three years before I met him, and 
who died when Marian was born. She, too, had been an only 
child and an orphan ; and as in all England there was none to 
care for him or his, he conceived the idea of emigrating to 
America, and there lavishing his stores of gold on Marian. 
She should be a lady, he said, and live in a palace fit for a 
queen. But death overtook him, and to me he intrusted his 
child with all his money — some in gold, and some in bank 
notes. And when he was dying, Frederic, and the perspira- 
tion was, cold on his brow, he made me lay my hand there 
and swear to be faithful to my trust as guardian of his child. 
For her, and for her alone, the money must be used. But, 
Frederic, I broke that oath. The Raymonds are noted for 
their love of gain, and when the Englishman was buried in the 
sea, the tempter whispered that the avenue to wealth, which I 


MARIAN GREY 


15 


so long had coveted, was open now — ^that no one knew or 
would ever know of the miser’s fortune; and I yielded. I 
guarded the bag where the treasure was hidden with more 
than a miser’s vigilance, and I chuckled with delight when I 
counted it out and found it far more than he had said.” 

‘‘Oh, my father, my father !” groaned Frederic, covering his 
white face with his hands, for he knew now that he was penni- 
less. 

“Don’t curse me, boy!” hoarsely whispered the old man; 
“Marian will not. She’ll forgive me — for Marian is an angel ; 
but I must hasten. You remember how I grew gradually rich 
and people talked of my good luck. Very cautiously I used the 
money at first, so as not to excite suspicion, but when I came 
to Kentucky, where I was not known, I was less fearful, and 
launched into speculation, until now they say I am the 
wealthiest man in Franklin County. But it’s hers — it’s 
Marian’s— every cent of it is hers. Your education w^as 
paid for with her money; all you have and are you owe to 
Marian Lindsey, who, by every law of the land, is the heiress 
of Redstone Hall.” 

He paused a moment, and, trembling with emotion, Frederic 
said: “Is there nothing ours, father? Our old home on the 
Hudson ? That, surely, is not hers ?” 

“You are right,” returned the father, “the old shell was 
mine, but when I brought Marian home it was not worth a 
thousand dollars, and it was all I had in the world. Her 
money has made it what it is. I always intended to tell her 
when she was old enough to understand, but as time went by 
I shrank from it, particularly when I saw how much you 
prized the luxuries which money alone can buy, and how that 
money kept you in the proud position you occupy. But it has 
killed me, Frederic, before my time, and now at the last do 
you wonder that I wish restitution to be made ? I would save 
you from poverty and my name from disgrace by marrying 
you to Marian. She must know the truth, of course, for in 
no other way can my conscience be satisfied — but the world 
would still be kept in ignorance.” 

“And if I do not marry her, oh, father must it come — 
poverty, disgrace, everything?” 

The young man’s voice was almost heartbroken in its tone, 
but the old man wavered not as he answered: “Yes, Frederic, 
it must come. If you refuse, I must deed it all to her. The 
lawyer, of course, must know the cause of so strange a pro- 
ceeding, and I have no faith that he would keep the secret, 
even if Marian should. I left it in writing in case you did not 


16 


MARIAN GREY 


come, and I gave you my dying curse if you failed of restoring 
to Marian her fortune. But you are here — you have heard 
my story, and it remains for you to choose. You have never 
taken care of yourself — have never been taught to think it 
necessary — and how can you struggle with poverty? Would 
that Isabel join her destiny with one who had not where to lay 
his headr^ 

'‘Stop, father! in mercy stop, ere you drive me mad!’' and 
starting to his feet, Frederic paced the floor wildly, dis- 
tractedly. 

A dark cloud had fallen upon him, and turn which way he 
would, it wrapped him in its gloomy folds. He knew his 
father would keep his word, and he desired that he should do 
so. It was right, and he shrank from any further injustice to 
the orphan, Marian, with whom he had suddenly changed 
places. He was the dependent now, and hers the hand that 
fed him. Frederic Raymond was proud, and the remembrance 
of his father’s words : “Her money paid for your education ; 
all you have and are you owe to Marian Lindsey,” stung him 
to his utmost soul. Still he could not make her his wife. It 
would be a greater wrong than even his father had done to 
her. And yet, if he had never seen Isabel, never mingled in 
the society of beautiful and accomplished women, he might 
perhaps have learned to love the gentle little girl, whose pres- 
ence, he knew, made the life and light of Redstone Hall. But 
he could not do it now, and going up to his father, he said, 
hesitatingly, as if it cost a bitter, agonized struggle to give up 
all his wealth: “I cannot do it, father; neither would 
Marian wish it, if she knew. Send for her now,” he con- 
tinued, as a new idea flashed upon him, “tell her all, here in 
my presence, and let her choose for me; but stay,” he added, 
quickly, coloring crimson at the unmanly selfishness which had 
prompted the sending for Marian, a selfishness which whis- 
pered that the generous girl would share her fortune with 
him; “stay, we will not send for her. I can decide the matter 
alone.” 

“Not now,” returned the father. “Wait until tomorrow at 
nine o’clock. If you do not come to me then, I shall send for 
Lawyer Gibson, and the writings will be drawn. I give you 
until that time to decide ; and now leave me, for I would rest.” 

He motioned toward the door, and glad to escape from an 
atmosphere which seemed laden with grief, Frederic went out 
into the open air, and Col. Raymond was again alone. His 
first thought was of the letter — the one intended for his son. 
He could destroy that now — for he would not that Marian 


MARIAN GREY 


17 


should ever know what it contained. She might not be Fred- 
eric’s wife, but he would save her from unnecessary pain; 
and exerting all his strength, he tottered to his private drawer, 
and took the letter in his hand. It was growing very dark 
within the room, and holding it up to the fading light, the 
dim-eyed old man read, or thought he read, 'Tor my son.'' 

"Yes, this is the one," he whispered — "the other reads. Tor 
Marian,' " and hastening back to his bedroom, he threw upon 
the fire burning in the grate the letter, but alas, the wrong one 
— for in his drawer still lay the fatal missive, which would 
one day well-nigh break poor Marian's heart, and drive her 
forth a wanderer from the home she loved so well. 

That night Frederic did not come down to supper. He was 
weary with his rapid journey, he said, and would rather rest. 
So Marian, who had dried her tears and half forgotten their 
cause, sat down to her solitary tea, little dreaming of the 
stormy scene which the walls of Frederic's chamber looked 
upon that night. All through the dreary hours he walked the 
floor, and when the morning light came struggling through the 
windows, it found him pale, haggard, and older by many years 
than he had seemed the day before. He heard the clock strike 
eight, and a moment after breakfast was announced. 

"Say I am not ready yet, and tell Marian not to wait," was 
the message he gave the servant ; and so another hour passed 
by, and heard the clock strike nine. 

His hour was up, but he could not yet decide. He walked 
to the window and looked down upon his home, which never 
seemed so beautiful before as on that bright September morn- 
ing. He could stay there if he chose, for he felt sure that he 
could win Marian's love if he tried. And then he wondered 
if his life would not be made happier with the knowledge that 
he had obeyed his father's request and saved his name from 
dishonor. There was the sound of horses' feet upon the 
graveled road. It was the negro Jake, and he was going for 
Lawyer Gibson. 

Rapidly another hour went by, and then he heard the sound 
of horses' hoofs again, but this time there were two who rode 
— Jake and the lawyer. In a moment the latter was at the 
door, and the sound of his feet as he strode through the lower 
hall went to the heart of the listening young man like bolts of 
ice. He heard a servant call Marian and say that his father 
wanted her; some new idea had entered into the sick man's 
head. He had probably decided to tell her all before he died; 
but it was not yet too late to prevent it, and with a face as 
white as ashes, and limbs which trembled in every joint, he 


18 


MARIAN GREY 


hurried down the stairs, meeting in the hall both Marian and 
the lawyer. 

*'Go back,^’ he whispered to the former, laying his hand 
upon her shoulder ; ^*1 would see my father first alone."' 

Wonderingly Marian looked into his pale, worn face and 
bloodshot eyes ; then motioning the lawyer into another room, 
she, too, followed him thither, while Frederic sought his 
father’s bedside, and bending low, whispered in the ear of the 
bewildered and half -crazed man that he would marry the 
heiress of Redstone Hall ! 


CHAPTER III 


DEATH AT REDSTONE HALL 

For two days after the morning of which we have written, 
Col. Raymond lay in a kind of stupor from which he would 
arouse at intervals, and pressing the hand of his son, who 
watched beside him, he would whisper, faintly: ^'God bless 
you for making your old father so happy. God bless you, my 
darling boy.’' 

And Frederic, as often as he heard these words would lay 
his aching head upon the pillow and try to force back the 
thoughts which continually whispered to him that a bad prom- 
ise was better broken than keptj and that at the last he would 
tell Marian all, and throw himself upon her generosity. Since 
the morning when he made the fatal promise he had said but 
little to her, though she had been often in the room, minister- 
ing to his father’s comfort, and once in the evening when he 
looked more than usuallly pale and weary, she had insisted 
upon taking his place, or sharing at least in the vigils. But he 
had declined her offer, and two hours later a slender little 
figure had glided noiselessly into the room and placed upon the 
table behind him a waiter, filled with delicacies which her own 
hand had prepared and which she knew from experience 
would be needed ere the long night was over. He did not 
turn his head when she came in, but he thanked her for her 
thoughtfulness and compelled himself to eat what she brought 
because he knew how disappointed she would be if, in the 
morning, she found it all untouched. 

And still he was as far from loving her now as he had ever 
been; and on the second night, as he sat by his sleeping 
father, he resolved, come what might, he would retract the 
promise made under such excitement. ^‘When father wakes. 
I’ll tell him I cannot,” he said, and anxiously he watched the 
clock, which pointed at last to midnight. The twelve loud 
strokes rang through the silent room, and with a short, quick 
gasp his father awoke. 

‘‘Frederic,” he said, and in his voice there was a tone never 
heard there before. “Frederic, has the light gone out, or why 
is it so dark? Where are we, for I cannot see?” 

Marian Grey 19 


20 


MARIAN GREY 


'The light is burning — here I am,” and Frederic took in his 
the shriveled hand which was cold with appoaching death. 

"Frederic, it has come at last, and I am going from you, but 
before I go lay your hand upon my brow, where the death 
sweat is standing, and say again what you said two days ago. 
Say you will make Marian your wife, and that until she is 
your wife she shall not know what I have done, for that might 
influence her decision. The letter I have left for her is in my 
private drawer, but you can keep the key. Promise me, Fred- 
eric, promise me both, for I am going very fast.” 

Twice Frederic essayed to speak, but the words "I cannot,” 
died on his lips, and again in the faint voice — fainter than 
when it spoke before, said, "Promise, my boy, and save the 
name of Raymond from dishonor.” 

It was in vain he struggled to resist his destiny. The plead- 
ing tones of his dying father prevailed. Isabel Huntington — 
Marian Lindsey — Redstone Hall — everything seemed as 
nought compared with that father’s wishes, and falling on his 
knees, the young man said: "Heaven helping me, father, I 
will do both.” 

"And as you have made me happy, may you be happy 
and prosper all the days of your life,” returned the father, 
laying his clammy hand upon the brown head of his son. "Tell 
Marian that dying I blessed her with more than a father's 
blessing, for she is very dear to me. And the little helpless 
Alice — she has money of her own, but she must still live with 
you and Marian. Be kind to the servants, Frederic. Don’t 
part with a single one — and — and — can you hear me, boy? 
Keep your promise as you hope for heaven hereafter.” 

They were the last words the old man ever spoke, and when 
at last Frederic raised his head he knew by the white face 
lying motionless upon the pillow that he was with the dead. 

The next morning the news spread rapidly, not only that 
Col. Raymond was dead, but also that he had died without a 
will, this last piece of information being given by Lawyer 
Gibson, who, a little disappointed in the result of his late 
visit to Redstone Hall, had several times in public expressed 
his private opinion that it was all the work of Frederic, who 
wanted everything himself and feared his father would leave 
something to Marian Lindsey. This seemed very probable; 
and in the same breath with which they deplored the loss of 
Col. Raymond, the neighbors denounced his son as selfish and 
avaricious. Still he was now the richest man in the county, 
and it would not be politic to treat him with disrespect, so 
they came about him with words of sympathy and offers of 


MARIAN GREY 


21 


assistance, all of which he listened to abstractedly, and when 
they asked for some directions as to the arrangements for the 
burial, he answered: “I do not know — I am not myself to- 
day — but go to Marian. I will abide by her decisions.’' 

So to Marian they went ; and hushing her own great grief — 
for she mourned for the departed as for a well-loved father— 
Marian told them what she thought her guardian would wish 
that they should do. When the sun was setting, a long pro- 
cession wound slowly down the terraced walk, bearing with 
them one who when they returned came not with them. 

Four weeks had passed away since Col. Raymond was laid 
to rest. At the funeral Frederic had offered Marian his arm, 
walking with her to the grave and back; but since that night 
he had kept aloof, seeing her only at the table or when he 
wished to ask some question which she alone could answer. 

In the first days of her sorrow she had forgotten the letter 
which her guardian had left for her, and when she did re- 
member it and went to the private drawer where he had said 
it was, she found the drawer locked. Frederic had the key, of 
course, and thinking that if a wrong had indeed been done to 
her, he knew it, too, she waited in hopes that he would speak 
of it, and perhaps bring her the letter. But Frederic Ray- 
mond had sworn to keep that letter from her yet a while, and 
he dared not break his vow. On the night after the burial he, 
too, had gone to the private drawer, and, taking the undirected 
missive in his hand, had felt strongly tempted to break its seal 
and read. But he had no right to do that, he said ; all that was 
required of him was to keep it from Marian until such time 
as he was at liberty to let her read it. So, with a benumbed 
sensation at his heart, he locked the drawer and left the room, 
feeling that his own destiny was fixed and that it was worse 
than useless to struggle against it. He could not write to 
Isabel yet, but he wrote to her mother, telling her of his 
father’s death, and saying he did not know how long it would 
be ere they saw him again at New Haven. This done, he sat 
down in a kind of torpor and waited for circumstances to 
shape themselves. Marian would seek for her letter, he 
thought, and missing the key, would come to him, and then — 
oh, how he hoped it would be weeks and months before she 
came, for when she did he knew he must tell her why it was 
withheld. 

Meantime, Marian waited day after day, vainly wishing that 
he would speak to her upon the subject ; but he did not, and at 
last, four weeks after her guardian’s death, she sought the 
library again, but found the drawer locked, as usual. 


22 


MARIAN GREY 


''It is unjust to treat me so/' she said. "The letter is mine 
and I have a right to read it.” 

Then, as she recalled the conversation which had passed be- 
tween herself and Col. Raymond on that night when he first 
hinted of a wrong, she wondered if he had said aught to Fred- 
eric of her. Most earnestly she hoped not — and yet she was 
almost certain that he had and this was why Frederic treated 
her so strangely. "He hates me,” she said, bitterly, "because 
he thinks I want him — ^but he needn’t, for I wouldn’t have 
him now, even if he knelt at my feet and begged of me to be 
his wife; I’ll tell him so, too, the first chance I get,” and sink- 
ing into the large arm chair, Marian laid her head upon the 
writing desk and wept. 

The day had been rainy and dark, and as she sat there in the 
gathering night and listened to the low moan of the October 
wind, she thought with gloomy forebodings of the future and 
what it would bring to her. 

"Oh, it is dreadful to be so homeless — so friendless — so 
poor,” she cried, and in that cry there was a note of desolation 
which touched a chord of pity in the heart of him who stood 
on the threshold of the door, silently watching the young girl 
as she battled with her stormy grief. 

He did not know why he had come to that room and he 
surely would not have come had he expected to find her there. 
But it could not now be helped ; he was there with her ; he had 
witnessed her sorrow — and involuntarily advancing toward 
her, he laid his hand lightly upon her shoulder, and said: 
"Poor child — don’t cry so hard.” 

She seemed to him a little girl, and as such he had addressed 
her ; but to the startled Marian it mattered not what he said — 
there was kindness in his voice, and lifting up her face, which 
even in the darkness looked white and worn, she sobbed, ‘'Oh, 
Frederic, you don’t hate me, then?” 

"Hate you, Marian,” he answered; "of course not. What 
put that idea into your head?” 

"Because — because you act so cold and strange and don’t 
come near me when my heart is aching so hard for him — ^your 
father.” 

Frederic made no reply, and resolving to make a clean 
breast of it, Marian continued: "There’s nobody to care for 
me now, and I wish you to be my brother, just as you used to 
be, and if your father said anything else of me to you, he 
didn’t mean it, I am sure; I don’t, at any rate, and I want you 
to forget it and not hate me for it. I’ll go away from Red- 
stone Hall if you say so; but you mustn’t hate me for what I 


MARIAN GREY 


23 


could not help. Will you, Frederic?” and Marian's voice was 
again choked with tears. 

She had stumbled upon the very subject uppermost in Fred- 
eric's mind, and drawing a chair near to her, he said, “I will 
not profess to be ignorant of what you mean, Marian. My 
father had some strange fancies at the last, but for these 
you are not to blame. Did he say nothing to you of a 
letter ?'' 

‘Yes, yes,” answered Marian, quickly, “and I've been for it 
so many times. Will you give it to me now, Frederic? It's 
mine, you know,” and Marian looked at him wistfully. 

Frederic hesitated a moment, and misapprehending the 
motive of his hesitancy, Marian continued ; 

“Do not fear what I may think. He said a wrong had been 
done to me, but if it has not affected me heretofore, it surely 
will not now, and I loved him well enough to forgive any- 
thing. Let me have the letter, won’t you?” 

“Marian,” and Frederic trembled with strong emotion. 
“Marian, the night my father died, I laid my hand upon his 
head and promised that you should not see that letter until you 
were a bride.” 

“A bride!” Marian exclaimed passionately, “I shall never 
be a bride — never — certainly not yours !” and the little hands 
worked nervously together, while she continued : “I asked you 
to forget that whim of your father's. He did not mean it; he 
would not have it so, and neither would I,” and Frederic Ray- 
mond could almost see the angry flash of the blue eyes turned 
so defiantly toward him. 

Manlike, he began to feel some interest now that there was 
opposition, and to her exclamation, “neither would I,” he re- 
plied softly: “Not if I wish it, Marian?” 

The tone rather than the words affected the young girl, 
thrilling her with a new-born delight; and laying her hand 
again upon the desk, she sobbed afresh, not impetuously this 
time, but quietly, steadily, as if the crying did her good. 
Greatly she longed for him to speak again, but he did not. He 
was waiting for her, and drying her tears she lifted up her 
face and in a voice which seemed to demand the truth, she 
said: “Frederic, do you wish it? Here, almost in the room 
where your father died, can you say to me, truly, that you 
wish me to be your wife ?” 

It was a perplexing question, and Frederic Raymond felt 
that he was dealing falsely with her, but he made to her the 
only answer he could: “Men seldom ask a woman to marry 
them unless they wish it.” 


24j 


MARIAN GREY 


know/' returned Marian, ^'but do — would you have 
thought of it if your father had not first suggested it?" 

‘"Marian," said Frederic, “I am much older than yourself, 
and I might never have thought of marrying you. He, how- 
ever, gave me good reason why I should wish to have it so — 
in all sincerity, I ask you to be my wife. Will you, Marian? 
It seems soon to talk of these things, but he so desired it." 

In her bewilderment Marian fancied he had said, “I do wish 
to have it so," but she would know another thing, and not 
daring to put the question to him direct, she said, “Do men 
ever wish to marry one whom they do not love?" 

Frederic understood her at once, and for a moment felt 
strongly tempted to tell her the truth, for in that case he was 
sure she would refuse to listen to his suit and he would then 
be free, but his father’s presence seemed over and around him, 
while Redstone Hall was too fair to be exchanged for pov- 
erty, and so he answered: “I have always loved you as a 
sister, and in time I will love you as you deserve. I will be 
kind to you, Marian, and I think I can make you happy." 

He spoke with earnestness, for he knew he was virtually 
deceiving the young girl, and in his inmost soul he deter- 
mined to repair the wrong by learning to love her, as he said. 

“And suppose I refuse you, what then?" 

Marian spoke decidedly, and something in her manner 
startled Frederic, who, now that he had gone thus far, did not 
care to be thwarted. 

“You will not refuse me, I am sure," he said. “We cannot 
live together here just as we have done, for people would 
talk." 

“I can go away," said Marian, mournfully, while Frederic 
replied: “No, Marian, if you will not be my wife, I must go 
away; Redstone Hall cannot be the home of us both, and if 
you refuse I shall go — soon, very soon." 

“Won’t you ever come back?" asked Marian, with childish 
simplicity; but ere Frederic could answer, the door suddenly 
opened and old Dinah appeared, exclaiming as her eyes fell 
upon them: “For the Lord’s sake, if you two ain’t a-sittin’ 
together in the dark, when I’ve done hunted everywhar for 
you,” and Dinah’s face wore a very knowing look, as setting 
down the candle she departed, muttering something about 
“when me and Philip was young." 

The spell was broken for Marian, and starting up, she said : 
“I cannot talk any more tonight. I’ll answer you some other 
time," and she hurried into the hall, where she stumbled upon 
Dinah, who greeted her with “Ain’t you two kinder hankerin’ 


MARIAN GREY 


25 , 


arter each other, case if you be, it’s the sensiblest thing you 
ever done. Marster Frederic is the likeliest, trimmest chap in 
Kentuck, and you’ve got an uncommon heap of sense.” 

Marian made no reply, but darted up the stairs to her room, 
where she could be alone to think. It seemed to her a dream, 
and yet she knew it was a reality. Frederic had asked her to 
be his wife, and though she had said to herself that she would 
not marry him even if he knelt at her feet, she felt vastly 
like revoking that decision! If she were only sure he loved 
her, or would love her, and then she recalled every word he 
had said, wishing she would have looked into his face and seen 
what its expression was. She did not think of the letter in 
her excitement. She only thought of Frederic’s question, and 
she longed for someone in whom she could confide. Alice, 
who always retired early, was already asleep, and as her soft 
breathing fell on Marian’s ear, she said: ^ Alice is much 
wiser than children usually are at six and a half. I mean 
to tell her,” and stealing to the bedside, she whispered: 
* Alice, Alice, wake up a moment, will you?” 

Alice turned on her pillow, and when sure she was awake, 
Marian said impetuously : ‘If you were me, would you marry 
Frederic Raymond?” 

The blind eyes opened wide, as if they doubted the sanity of 
the speaker, then quietly replying: “No, indeed, I wouldn’t,” 
Alice turned a second time upon her pillow and slept again, 
while Marian, a good deal piqued at the answer, tormented 
herself with wondering what the child could mean, and why 
she disliked Frederic so much. The next morning it was 
Alice who awoke Marian, and said: “Was it a dream, or 
did you say something to me last night about marrying 
Frederic?” 

For a moment Marian forgot that the sightless eyes turned 
so inquiringly toward her could not see, and she covered her 
face with her hands to hide the blushes she knew were burn- 
ing there. 

“Say,” persisted Alice, “what was it?” and half willingly, 
half reluctantly, Marian told of the strange request which 
Frederic had made, saying nothing, however, of the letter, for 
if Col. Raymond had done her a wrong, she felt it a duty she 
owed his memory to keep it to herself. 

When, at the breakfast table, she met Frederic, she was 
ready to answer his question, but she chose to let him broach 
the subject, and this he did that evening when be found her 
alone in his father’s room. He had decided that it was use- 
less to struggle with his fate, and he resolved to make the 


26 


MARIAN GREY 


best of it. How far Redstone Hall, bank notes, stock, and 
real estate influenced this decision we cannot say, but he was 
sincere in his intention of treating Marian well, and when 
he found her by accident in his father’s room, he said to her 
kindly : ‘'Can you answer me now ?” 

Marian was not yet enough accustomed to the world to con- 
ceal whatever she felt, and with the light of a new happiness 
shining on her childish face, she went up to him, and laying 
her hand confidingly upon his, she said: “I will marry you, 
Frederic, if you wish me to.” 

A strange enigma is human nature. When the previous 
night she had hesitated to answer, Frederic was conscious of 
a vague fear that she might say no, and now that she had 
said yes, he felt less pleasure than pain, for the die he knew 
was cast. A more observing eye than Marian’s would have 
seen the dark shadow which flitted over his face, and the 
sudden paling of his lips, but she did not; she only saw how 
he shook off her hand without even so much as touching it. 

And thus, without caress or word of love, was that ill- 
starred engagement sealed, forming a striking contrast to the 
one which years after took place within that large room and 
at that very hour; Frederic knew well that Marian was too 
much of a child to manage the affair, and after his interview 
with her, he sought out Dinah, to whom he announced his 
intentions. 

"There is no need of delay,” he said, "and two weeks from 
today is the time appointed. There will be no show — no 
parade — simply a quiet wedding in the presence of a few 
friends, who will dine with us, of course. The dinner you 
must see to, and I will attend to the rest.” 

Meantime Marian was confiding to Alice the story of hef 
engagement, and wondering if Frederic intended taking a 
bridal tour. She hoped he did, for she so much wished to see 
a little of the world, particularly New York, of which she 
had heard such glowing accounts. But nothing could be less 
in accordance with Frederic’s feelings than a bridal tour, and 
when Marian once ventured to broach the subject, he said 
that under the circumstances it would hardly be right to go 
off and enjoy themselves, so they had better stay quietly at 
home. And this settled the point, for Marian never thought 
of questioning his decision. If they made no journey, she 
would not need any additions to her wardrobe, and she was 
thus saved from the trouble which usually falls to the lot of 
brides. Still it was not at all in accordance with her ideas— ^ 
this marrying without a single article of finery, and once she 


MARIAN GREY 


27 


resolved to indulge in a new dress, at least. She had ample 
means of her own, for her guardian had been lavish of his 
money, always giving her far more than she could use, and 
during the last year she had been saving funds for the pur- 
pose of surprising Alice and the blacks with handsome Christ- 
mas presents. 

Among the neighbors there was a great deal of talk, and 
occasionally a few of them called at Redstone Hall, but these 
only came to go away again and comment on Frederic’s 
strange taste in marrying one so young and so wholly unlike 
himself. It could not be, they said, that he really cared about 
the will, else why had he so soon taken Marian to share his 
fortune with him? But Frederic kept his own counsel, and 
once when questioned on the subject of his marriage and 
asked if it were not a sudden thing, he answered haughtily: 
‘'Of course not — it was decided years ago, when Marian first 
came to live with us.” 

And so amid the speculations of friends, the gossip of Dinah, 
the joyous anticipations of Marian, and the harrowing doubts 
of Frederic, the two weeks passed away, bringing at last the 
eventful day when Redstone Hall was to have once more a 
mistress. 





CHAPTER IV 


THE BRIDAL DAY 

'Tt was the veriest farce in the world, the marriage of 
Frederic Raymond with a child not yet sixteen'"; at least so 
said Agnes Gibson, of twenty-five, and so said sundry other 
guests who at the appointed hour assembled in the parlor of 
Redstone Hall to witness the sacrifice — not of Frederic, as 
they vainly imagined, but of the unsuspecting Marian. 

He knew what he did, and why he did it, while she, blind- 
folded, as it were, was about to leap into the uncertain future. 
No such gloomy thoughts as these, however, intruded them- 
selves upon her mind as she stood before her mirror and with 
trembling fingers made her simple bridal toilet. When first 
the idea of marrying Frederic was suggested to her nearly as 
much pride as love had mingled in her thoughts, for Marian 
was not without her ambition, and the honor of being the mis- 
tress of Redstone Hall had influenced her decision. But dur- 
ing the two weeks since her engagement her heart had gone 
out toward him with a deep absorbing love, and had he now 
been the poorest man in the world and she a royal princess, she 
would have spurned the wealth that kept her from him, or 
gladly have laid it at his feet for the sake of staying with him 
and knowing that he wished it. And this was the girl whom 
Frederic Raymond was about to wrong by making her his 
wife, when he knew he did not love her. But she should never 
know it, he said — should never suspect that nothing but his 
hand and name went with the words he was so soon to utter, 
and he determined to be true to her and faithful to his mar- 
riage vow. 

Some doubt he had as to the effect his father’s letter might 
have upon her, and once he resolved that she should never see 
it; but this was an idle thought, not to be harbored for a 
moment. He had told her when she asked him for it the last 
time that she should have it on her bridal day; for so his 
father willed it, and he would keep his word. He had written 
to Isabel at the very last, for though he was not bound to her 
by any promise he knew an explanation of his conduct was 
due to her, and he forced himself to write it. Not a word did 
Marian Grey 29 


30 


MARIAN GREY 


he say against Marian, but he gave her to understand that but 
for his father the match would never have been made — ^that 
circumstances over which he had no control compelled him 
to do what he was doing. He should never forget the 
pleasant hours spent in her society, he caid, and he closed by 
asking her to visit the future Mrs. Raymond at Redstone Hall. 
It cost him a bitter struggle to write thus indifferently to one 
he loved so well, but it was right, he said, and when the letter 
was finished he felt that the last tie which bound him to 
Isabel was sundered, and there was nothing for him now but 
to make the best of Marian. So when on their bridal morn- 
ing she came to him and asked his wishes concerning her 
dress, he answered her very kindly: ‘‘As you are in mourn- 
ing you had better make no change, besides I think black very 
becoming to your fair complexion.'' 

This was the first compliment he had ever paid her, and her 
heart thrilled with delight, but when, as she was leaving the 
room, he called her back and said, still gently, kindly: “Would 
you as soon wear your hair plain ? I do not quite fancy ring- 
lets," her eyes filled with tears, for she remembered the cork- 
screw curls, and glancing in the mirror at her wavy hair, she 
wished it were possible to remedy the defect. 

“I will do the best I can," she said, and returning to her 
room, she commenced her operations, but it was a long, tedious 
process, the combing out of those curls, for her hair was tena- 
cious of its rights, and even when she thought it subdued and 
let go of the end, it rolled up about her forehead in 
tight, round rings, as if spurning alike both water and 
brush. 

Marian went on with her task, which was finished at last, 
and her luxuriant hair was bound at the back of her head in 
a large, flat knot. The effect was not becoming, and she 
knew it, but if Frederic liked it she was satisfied, even if 
Dinah did demur, telling her she looked like “a cat whose 
ears had been boxed." Frederic did not like it, but after the 
pains she had taken he would not tell her so, and when she 
said to him, “I am ready," he offered her his arm and went 
silently down the stairs to the parlor, where guests and clergy- 
man were waiting. 

Whether it was the newness of her position, or a presenti- 
ment of coming evil, Marian could not tell, but into her heart 
there crept a chill as she glanced timidly at the man who stood 
so silently beside her, and thought, “He is my husband." It 
was, indeed, a somber wedding — “more like a funeral," the 
guests declared, as immediately after dinner they took their 


MARIAN GREY 


31 


leave and commented upon the affair as people always will. 
Oh, how Frederic longed, yet dreaded to have them go. He 
could not endure their congratulations, which to him were 
meaningless, and he had no wish to be alone. He was re- 
covering from his apathy, and could yesterday have been his 
again, he believed he would have broken his promise. But 
yesterday had gone, tomorrow had come — it was today now 
with him, and Marian was his wife. Turn which way he 
would, the reality was the same, and with an intense loath- 
ing of himself and a deep pity for her, he feigned some trivial 
excuse and went away to his room, where, with the gathering 
darkness and his own wretched thoughts, he would be alone. 

With strange unrest Marian wandered from room to room, 
wondering if Frederic had so soon grown weary of her pres- 
ence, and sometimes half wishing that she were Marian 
Lindsey again, and that the new name by which they called 
her belonged to someone else. At last when it was really dark 
— when the lamps were lighted in the parlor and Alice had 
wept a bitter, passionate good night in her arms and gone to 
sleep, she bethought her of the letter. She would read it now. 
She had complied with all the stipulations, and there was no 
longer a reason why it should be withheld. She went to 
Frederic's door; but he was not there, and a servant passing 
in the hall said he had returned to the parlor while she was 
busy with Alice. So to the parlor Marian went, finding him 
sitting unemployed and wrapped in gloomy thought. He heard 
her step upon the carpet, but standing in the shadow as she 
did, she could not see the look of pain which flitted over his 
face at her approach. 

'‘Frederic," she said, “I may read the letter now — will you 
give me the key ?" 

Mechanically he did as she desired, and then with a slightly 
uneasy feeling as to the effect the letter might have upon her, 
he went back to his reflections, while she started to leave the 
room. When she reached the door she paused a moment to 
look back. In giving her the key he had changed his position, 
and she could see the suffering expression on his white face. 
Quickly returning to his side, she said, anxiously, “Are you 
sick ?" 

“Nothing but a headache. You know I am accustomed to 
that," he replied. 

Marian hesitated a moment — then parting the damp, brown 
hair from off his forehead, she kissed him timidly and left the 
room. Involuntarily Frederic raised his hand to wipe the spot 
away, but something stayed the act and whispered to him that 


32 


MARIAN GREY 


a wife's first kiss was a holy thing and could never be re- 
peated. 

Through the hall the nimble feet of Marian sped until she 
stood within her late guardian's room, and there she stopped, 
for the atmosphere seemed oppressive and laden with terror 
'Tis because it's so dark," she said, and going out into the 
hall, she took a lamp from the table and then returned. 

But the olden feeling was with her still — a feeling as if she 
were treading some fearful gulf, and she was half tempted 
to turn back even now and ask Frederic to come with her 
while she read the letter. 

‘T will not be so foolish, though," she said, and opening the 
library door, she walked boldly in — but the same Marian who 
entered there never came out again ! 

Oh, how still it was in that room, and the click of the key as 
it turned the slender bolt echoed through the silent apartment, 
causing Marian to start as if a living presence had been near. 
The drawer was opened, and she held the letter in her hand, 
while unseen voices seemed whispering to her : ‘‘Oh, Marian 
— Marian — leave the letter still untouched. Do not seek to 
know the secret it contains, but go back to the man who is 
your husband, and by those gentle acts which seldom fail in 
their effect, win his love. It will be far more precious to you 
than all the wealth of which you are the unsuspecting 
heiress !" 

But Marian did not understand — nor know why it was she 
trembled so. She only knew she had the letter in her hand— 
her letter — the one left by her guardian. It bore no super- 
scription, but it was for her, of course, and fixing herself in 
a comfortable position, she broke the seal and read : 

“My dear child:;' 

There was nothing in those three words suggestive of a 
mistake, and Marian read on till, with a quick, nervous start, 
she glanced forward, then backward, and then read on and on, 
until at last not even the fear of death itself could have 
stopped her from that reading. That letter was never in- 
tended for her eye — she knew that now, but had the cold hand 
of her guardian been interposed to wrest it from her, she 
would have held it fast until she learned the whole. Like 
coals of living fire the words burned into her soul, scorch- 
ing, blistering as they burned, and when the letter was fin- 
ished she fell upon her face with a cry so full of agony and 
horror that Frederic, in the parlor, heard the wail of human 
anguish, and started to his feet, wondering whence it came. 

With the setting of the sun the November wind had risen. 


MARIAN GREY 


33 


and as the young man listened, it swept moaning past the 
window, seeming not unlike the sound he had first heard. ‘‘It 
was the wind,'' he said, and he resumed his seat, while, in that 
little room, not very far away, poor Marian came back to 
consciousness, and crouching on the floor prayed that she 
might die. She understood it now — ^how she had been de- 
ceived, betrayed, and cruelly wronged. She knew, too, that 
she was the heiress of untold wealth, and for a single moment 
her heart beat with a gratified pride, but the surprise was too 
great to be realized at once, and the feeling was so absorbed 
in the reason why Frederic Raymond had made her his wife. 
It was not herself he had married, but her fortune — her 
money — Redstone Hall. She was merely a necessary incum- 
brance, which he would rather should have been omitted in 
the bargain. The thought was maddening, and, stretching out 
her arms, she asked again that she might die. 

^"Oh, why didn’t he come to me," she cried, ^^and tell me ? I 
would gladly have given him half my fortune — yes, all — all — 
rather than to be the wretched thing I am ; and he would have 
been free to love and marry this — " 

She could not at first speak the name of her rival, but she 
said it at last, and the sound of it wrung her heart with a new 
and torturing pain. She had never heard of Isabel Hunting- 
ton before, and as she thought how beautiful and grand she 
was, she whispered to herself : “Why didn’t he go back to her 
and leave me, 'the red-headed fright,' alone. Yes, that was 
what he wrote to his father. Let me look at it again,” and 
the tone of her voice was bitter and the expression of her face 
hard and stony as taking up the letter she read for the second 
time that “she was uncouth, uneducated, and ugly" — and if his 
father did not give up that foolish fancy, Frederic would posi- 
tively “hate the red-headed fright." Her guardian had not 
given up the foolish fancy, consequently there was but one 
inference to be drawn. 

In her excitement she did not consider that Frederic had 
probably written of her harsher things than he really meant. 
She only thought: “He loathes me — he despises me — he 
wishes I was dead — and I dared to kiss him, too," she added. 
“How he hated me for that, but 'twas the first, and it shall be 
the last, for I will go away forever and leave him Redstone 
Hall, the bride he married a few hours ago," and laying her 
face upon the chair Marian thought long and earnestly of the 
future. She had come into that room a happy, simple-hearted 
confiding child, but she had lived years since, and she sat there 
now a crushed, but self-reliant woman, ready to go out and 


34j 


MARIAN GREY 


contend with the world alone. Gradually her thoughts and 
purposes took a definite form. She was ignorant of tfc knotty 
points of law, and she did not know but Frederic could get 
her a divorce, but from this publicity she shrank. She could 
not be pointed at as a discarded wife. She would rather go 
away where Frederic would never see nor hear of her again, 
and she fancied that by so doing he would, after a time, at 
least, be free to marry Isabel. She had not wept before, for 
her tears seemed scorched with pain, but at the thought of 
another coming there to take the place she had hoped to fill, 
they rained in torrents over her white face, and clasping her 
little hands convulsively together, she cried: ^'How can I 
give him up, when I love him so much — so much?’' 

Gradually there stole over her the noble, unselfish thought 
that because she loved him so much she would willingly sacri- 
fice herself and all she had for the sake of making him happy, 
and then she grew calm again and began to decide where she 
would go. Instinctively her mind turned toward New York 
City as the great hiding place from the world. Mrs. Burt, the 
woman who had lived with them in Yonkers and who had al- 
ways been so kind to her, was in New York she knew, for she 
had written to Col. Raymond not long before his death, ask- 
ing if there was anything in Kentucky for her son Ben to do. 
This letter her guardian had answered and then destroyed 
with many others, which he said were of no consequence, and 
only lumbered up his drawer. Consequently there was no 
possibility that this letter would suggest Mrs. Burt to Fred- 
eric, who had never seen her, she having come and gone while 
he was away at school, and thus far the project was a safe 
one. But her name — she might sometime be recognized by 
that, and remembering that her mother’s maiden name was 
Mary Grey, and that Frederic, even if he had ever known it, 
which was doubtful, had probably forgotten it, she resolved 
upon being henceforth Marian Grey, and she repeated it 
aloud, feeling the while that the change was well, for she was 
no longer the same girl she used to know as Marian Lindsey. 
Once she said softly to herself, ‘^Marian Raymond,” but the 
sound grated harshly, for she felt that she had no right to 
bear that name. 

This settled, she turned her thoughts upon the means by 
which New York was to be reached, and she was glad that 
she had not bought the dress, for now she had no funds with 
which to meet the expense, and she would go that very night, 
before her resolution left her. Redstone Hall was only two 
miles from the station, and as the evening train passed at 


MARIAN GREY 


35 


half-past nine, there would be ample time to reach it and with 
a farewell letter, too, to Frederic, for she must tell him how, 
though it broke her heart to do it, she willingly gave him 
everything, and hoped he would be happy when she was gone 
forever. Marian was beautiful then in her desolation, and so 
Frederic Raymond would have said, could he have seen her 
with the light of her noble sacrifice of self shining in her 
eyes and the new-born, womanly expression on her face. The 
first tearful burst was over, and calmly she sat down to her 
task, but the storm rose high again and she essayed to write 
that good-by, which would seem to him who read it a cry of 
despair wrung from a fainting heart. 

"Trederic: Dear Frederic [she began], can I, may I say 
my husband once — just once, and I’ll never insult you with 
that name again? 

*T am going away forever, Frederic, and when you are 
reading this I shall not be at Redstone Hall nor anywhere 
around it. Do not try to find me. It is better you sho^d not. 
Your father’s letter, which was intended for you, and by mis- 
take has come to me, will tell you why I go. I forgive your 
father, Frederic — fully, freely forgive him — but you — oh, 
Frederic, if I loved you less I should blame you for deceiving 
me so cruelly. If you had told me all, I would gladly have 
shared my fortune with you. I would have given you more 
than half, and when you brought that beautiful Isabel home I 
would have loved her as a sister. 

“Why didn’t you, Frederic? What made you treat me so? 
What made you break my heart when you could have helped 
it ? It aches so hard now as I write, and the hardest pain of 
all is the loss of faith in you. I thought you so noble, so 
good, and I may confess to you here on paper, I loved you so 
much — how much you will never know, for I shall not come 
back to tell you. 

“And I kissed you, too. Forgive me for that, Frederic. I 
didn’t know then how you hated me. Wash the stain from 
your forehead, can’t you, and don’t lay it up against me? If I 
thought I could make you love me, I would stay. I would 
endure torture for years if I knew the light was shining be- 
yond, but it cannot be. The sight of me would make you hate 
me more. So I give everything I have to you and Isabel. 
You’ll marry her at a suitable time, and when you see how 
well she becomes your home, you will be glad I went away. 
If you must, tell her of me, and I suppose you must, speak 
kindly of me, won’t you? You needn’t talk of me often, but 


36 


MARIAN GREY 


sometimes, when you are all alone, and you are sure she will 
not know, think of poor little Marian, who gave her life away 
that one she loved the best in all the world might have wealth 
and happiness. 

"‘Farewell, Frederic — farewell. Death itself cannot be 

harder than bidding you good-by and knowing it is forever.'’ 

And well might Marian say this, for it seemed to her that 
she dipped her pen in her very heart's blood when she wrote 
that last adieu. She folded up the letter and directed it to 
Frederic, then, taking another sheet, she wrote to the blind 
girl : 

“Dearest Alice: 

“Precious little Alice; If my heart was not already broken, 
it would break at leaving you. Don't mourn for me much, 
darling. Tell Dinah and Hetty and the other blacks not to 
cry, and if I've ever been cross to them, they must forget it, 
now that I am gone. God bless you all. Good-by — good-by.” 

The letters finished, she left them upon the desk where they 
could not help being seen by the first one who should enter, 
then, stealing up the stairs to the closet at the extreme of the 
hall she put on her bonnet, veil, and shawl, and started for her 
purse which was in the chamber where Alice slept. Careful,, 
very careful were her footsteps now, lest she waken the child, 
who, having cried herself to sleep, was resting quietly. The 
purse was obtained, as was also a photograph of her guardian 
which lay in the same drawer, and then for a moment she 
stood gazing at the little blind girl and longing to give her one 
more kiss, but she dared not, and glancing hurriedly around 
the room, which had been hers so long, she hastened down the 
stairs and out upon the piazza. She could see the light from 
the parlor window streaming out into the darkness, and draw- 
ing near she looked through blinding tears upon the solitary 
man, who, sitting there alone, little dreamed of the whispered 
blessings breathed for him but a few yards away. It seemed 
to Marian in that moment of agony that her very life was go- 
ing out, and she leaned against the pillar to keep herself from 
falling. 

“Oh, can I leave him?” she thought. “Can I go away for- 
ever, and never see his face again or listen to his voice ?” and 
looking up into the sky she prayed that if in heaven they 
should meet again, he might know and love her there for what 
she suffered here. 

On the withered grass and leaves near by there was a 
rustling sound as if someone was coming, and Marian drew 


MARIAN GREY 


37 


back for fear of being seen, but it was only Bruno, the large 
watch dog. He had just been released from his kennel, and 
he came tearing up the walk, and, with a low, savage growl, 
sprang toward the spot where Marian was hiding. 

''Bruno, good Bruno,’’ she whispered, and in an instant the 
fierce mastiff crouched at her feet, and licked her hand with 
a whining sound, as if he suspected something wrong. 

One more yearning glance at Frederic — one more tearful 
look at her old home, and Marian walked rapidly down the 
avenue, followed by Bruno, who could neither be coaxed nor 
driven back. It was all in vain that Marian stamped her little 
foot, wound her arms around his shaggy neck, bidding him re- 
turn ; he only answered with a faint whine, quite as expressive 
of obstinacy as words could have been. He knew Marian had 
no business to be abroad at that hour of the night, and, with 
the faithfulness of his race, was determined to follow. At 
length, as she was beginning to despair of getting rid of him, 
she remembered how pertinaciously he would guard any article 
which he knew belonged to the family, and, on the bridge 
which crossed the Elkhorn, she purposely dropped her glove 
and handkerchief, the latter of which bore her name in full. 
The ruse was successful, for after vainly attempting to make 
her know that she had lost something, the dog turned back, 
and, with a loud, mournful howl, which Marian accepted as 
his farewell, he laid himself down by the handkerchief and 
glove, turning his head occasionally in the direction Marian 
had gone, and uttering low, plaintive howls when he saw she 
did not return. 

Meantime Marian kept on her way, striking out into the 
fields so as not to be observed, and at last, just as the cars 
sounded in the distance, she came up to a clump of trees grow- 
ing a little to the left and on the opposite side of the road 
from that on which the depot stood. By getting in here no 
one would see her at the station, and when the train stopped 
she came out from her concealment, and bounding lightly 
upon the platform of the rear car, entered unobserved. As 
the passengers were sitting with their backs toward her, but 
one or two noticed her when she came in, and these scarce 
gave her a thought, as she sank into the seat nearest to the 
door, and drawing her veil over her face, trembled violently 
lest she should be recognized, or at least noticed and remem- 
bered. But her fears were vain, for no one there had ever 
seen or heard of her, and in a moment more the train was 
moving on, and she, heart-broken and alone, was taking her 
bridal tour ! 








CHAPTER V 


THE ALARM 

In her solitary bed little Alice slumbered on, moaning occa- 
sionally in her sleep, and at last when the clock struck nine, 
starting up and calling, ‘‘Marian, Marieii, where are you?’' 
Then, remembering that Marian could not come to her that 
night, she puzzled her little brain with the great mystery, and 
wept herself to sleep for the second time. 

Dinah, standing in the doorway, heard the whistle of the 
train as it passed the Big Spring station. 

“Who s’posed 'twas half-past nine," she exclaimed; “I’ll go 
this minnit and see if Miss Marian wants me." 

Just then another loud piercing howl from Bruno, who was 
growing impatient, fell upon her ear and arrested her move- 
ments. 

“What can ail the critter," she said ; “and he’s down on the 
bridge, too, I believe." 

The other negroes also heard the cry, which was succeeded 
by another, and another, and became at last one prolonged yell, 
which echoed down the river and over the hills, starting 
Frederic from his deep reverie and bringing him to the piazza, 
where the blacks had assembled in a body. 

“ ’Spects mebby Bruno’s done cotched somethin’ or some- 
body down thar," suggested Philip, the most courageous of the 
group. 

“Suppose you go see," said Frederic, and lighting his old 
2antern Philip sallied out, followed ere long by all his com- 
rades, who, by accusing each other of being “skeered to 
death," managed to keep up their own courage. 

The bridge was reached, and in a tremor of delight Bruno 
bounded upon Phil, upsetting the old man and extinguishing 
the light, so that they were in total darkness. The white 
handkerchief, however, caught Dinah’s eye, and in picking it 
up she also felt the glove, which was lying near it. But this 
did not explain the mystery, and after searching in vain for 
man, beast, or hobgoblin, the party returned to the house, 
where their master awaited them. 

“Thar warn’t nothing thar, ’cept this yer rag and glove," 
said Dinah, passing the articles to him. 

Marian Grey 39 


40 


MARIAN GREY 


He took them, and passing to the light saw the name upon 
the handkerchief, ''Marian Lindsey/^ The glove, too, he rec- 
ognized as belonging to her, and with a vague fear of im- 
pending evil, he asked where they found them. 

"On the bridge,’' answered Dinah; "somebody must have 
dropped ’em. That handkercher looks mighty like Miss 
Marian’s hemstitched one.” 

"It is hers,” returned Frederic; "do you know where she 
is?” 

"You is the one who orto know that, I reckon,” answered 
Dinah, adding that "she hadn’t seen her sence jest after dark, 
when she went upstairs with Alice.” 

Frederic was interested now. In his abstraction he had not 
heeded the lapse of time, though he wondered where Marian 
was, and once feeling anxious to know what she would say to 
the letter, he was tempted to go in quest of her. But he did 
not, and now, with a presentiment that all was not right, he 
went to Alice’s chamber, but found no Marian there. Neither 
was she in any of the chambers, nor in the hall, nor in the 
dining room, nor in his father’s room, and he stood at last in 
the library door. The writing desk was open, and on it lay 
three letters, one for Alice, one for him, the other undirected. 
With a beating heart he took the one intended for himself, and 
tearing it open, read it through. When Marian wrote that 
"she gave her life away,” she had no thought of deceiving 
him, for her giving him up was giving her very life. But he 
did not so understand it, and sinking into a chair, he gasped, 
"Great Heaven, Marian is dead!” while his face grew livid 
and his heart sick with the horrid fear. 

"Dead, Marster Frederic,” shrieked old Dinah, "who dare 
tell me my chile is dead 1” and bounding forward like a tiger, 
she grasped the arm of the wretched man, exclaiming, "whar 
is she dead ? and what is she dead for ? and what’s that she’s 
writ that makes your face as white as a piece of paper ? Read 
and let us hear!” 

"I can’t, I can’t!” moaned the stricken man; "Oh, has it 
come to this? Marian, Marian — won’t somebody bring her 
back ?” 

"If marster’ll tell me whar to look, I’ll find her, so help me, 
Lord,” said Uncle Phil, the tears rolling down his dusky 
cheeks. 

"You found her handkerchief upon the bridge,” returned 
Frederic, "and Bruno has been howling there — don’t you see? 
She’s in the river ! She’s drowned ! Oh, Marian — poor 
Marian, I’ve killed her, but God knows I did not mean to”; 


MARIAN GREY 


41 


and in the very spot where not long before poor Marian had 
fallen on her face, the desolate man now lay on his, and suf- 
fering in part what she had suffered there. 

It was a striking group assembled there. The bowed man, 
convulsed with strong emotion and clutching with one hand 
the letter which had done the fearful work. The blacks 
gathered around, some weeping bitterly, and all petrified with 
terror, while into their midst when the storm was at its 
height the little Alice groped her way — her soft hair falling 
over her white nightdress, her blind eyes rolling around the 
room and her quick ear turned to catch any sound which 
might explain the strange proceedings. She had been aroused 
from sleep by the confusion, and hearing the uproar in the 
hall and library, had felt her way to the latter spot, where in 
the doorway she stood asking for Marian. 

‘‘Bless you, honey. Miss Marian's dead — drownded,” said 
Dinah, and Alice’s shriek mingled with the general din. 

“Where’s Frederic ?” asked the little girl, feeling intuitively 
that he was the one who needed most sympathy. 

At the sound of his name Frederic lifted up his head, and, 
taking the child in his arms, kissed her tenderly, as if he thus 
would make amends for his coldness to the lost Marian. 

“ ’Tain’t no way to stand here like rocks,” said Uncle Phil at 
last. “If Miss Marian is in the river, we’d better be a fishin’ 
her out,” and the practical negro proceeded to make the neces- 
sary arrangements. 

Before he left the room, however, he would know if he 
were working for a certainty, and turning to his master, said : 
“Have you jest cause for thinkin’ she’s done drownded herself 
— ’case if you hain’t, ’tain’t no use huntin’ this dark night, and 
it’s gwine to rain, too. The clouds is gettin’ black as pitch.” 

Thus appealed to, Frederic answered: “She says in the 
letter that she’s going away forever, that she shall not come 
back again, and she spoke of giving her life away. You found 
her handkerchief and glove upon the bridge with Bruno 
watching near, and she is gone. Do you need more proof?” 

Frederic led the search. Bareheaded, and utterly regardless 
of the rain which, as Uncle Phil had prophesied, began to fail 
in torrents, he gave the necessary directions, and when the 
morning broke, few would have recognized the elegant bride- 
groom of the previous day in the white-faced, weary man, 
who, with soiled garments and dripping hair, stood upon the 
narrow bridge, and in the gray November morning looked 
mournfully down the river as it went rushing on, telling no 
secret, if secret, indeed, there were to tell, of the wild despair 


42 


MARIAN GREY 


which must have filled poor Marian’s heart and maddened her 
brain ere she sought that watery grave. 

Before coming out he had hurriedly read his father’s letter, 
and he could well understand how its contents broke the heart 
of the wretched girl, and drove her to the desperate act which 
he believed she had committed. 

“Poor Marian,” he whispered to himself, as he stood upon 
the bridge, “I alone am the cause of your sad death”; and 
most gladly would he then have become a beggar and earned 
his bread by the sweat of his brow, could she have come back 
again, full of life, of health and hope, just as she was the day 
before. 

But this could not be, for she was dead, he said, dead be- 
yond a doubt, and all there remained for him to do was to find 
her body and lay it beside his father. So during that day the 
search went on, and crowds of people were gathered on each 
side of the river, but no trace of the lost one could be found, 
and when a second time the night fell dark and heavy around 
Redstone Hall, it found a mournful group assembled there. 

Day after day went by, during which the search was con- 
tinued at intervals, and always with the same result, until 
when a week was gone and there was still no trace of her 
found, people began to suggest that she was not in the river 
at all, but had gone off in another direction. Frederic, how- 
ever, was incredulous — she had no money that he or anyone 
else knew of, or at least but very little. She had never been 
away from home alone, and if she had done so now, somebody 
would have seen her ere this, and suspected who it was, for 
the papers far and near teemed with the strange event, each 
editor commenting upon its cause according to his own ideas, 
and all uniting in censuring the husband, who at last was de- 
scribed as a cruel, unfeeling wretch, capable of driving any 
woman from his house, particularly one as beautiful and ac- 
complished as the unfortunate bride! It was in vain that 
Frederic winced under the annoyance he could not help him- 
self, and the story went the rounds, improving with each repe- 
tition, until at last an Oregon weekly outdid all the rest by 
publishing the tale under the heading of “Supposed Horrible 
Murder.” So much for newspaper paragraphs. 

Meantime Frederic, too, inserted in the papers advertise- 
ments for the lost one, without any tepectation, however, that 
they would bring her back. To him she was dead, even though 
her body could not be found. There might be deep, unfathom- 
able sink-holes in the river, he said, and into one of these she 
had fallen, and so, with a crushing \yeight upon his spirits and 


MARIAN GREY 


43 


an intense loathing of himself and the wealth which was his 
now beyond a question, he gave her up as lost and waited for 
what would come to him next. 

Occasionally he found himself thinking of Isabel, and won- 
dering what she would say to his letter. When last he saw 
her, she was talking of visiting her mother’s half-brother, who 
lived in Dayton, Ohio, and he said to her at parting: ^‘If you 
come as far as that, you must surely visit Redstone Hall.” 

But he had little faith in her coming, and now he earnestly 
hoped she would not, for if he had wronged the living he 
would be faithful to the dead; and so day after day he sat 
there in his desolate home, brooding over the past — ^trying to 
forget the present and shrinking from the future, which 
looked so hopeless now. Thoughts of Marian haunted him 
continually, and in his dreams he often heard again the wail- 
ing sound, which he knew must have been her cry when she 
learned how she had been deceived. Gradually, too, he came 
to miss her presence — to listen for her girlish voice, her 
bounding step, and merry laugh, which he had once thought 
rude. Her careful forethought for his comfort, too, he missed 
— confessing in his secret heart at least that Redstone Hall 
was nothing without Marian. 

And now, with these influences at work to make him what 
he ought to be, we leave him a while in his sorrow and follow 
the fugitive bride. 



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CHAPTER VI 


MARIAN 

Onward and onward — faster and faster — flew the night ex- 
press, and the wishes of nearly all the passengers kept pace 
with the speed. One there was, however, a pale-faced, blue- 
eyed girl, who dreaded the time when the cars would reach 
their destination and she be in New York! How she had 
come thus far safely she scarce could tell. She only knew 
that everybody had been kind to her, and asked her where she 
wished to go; until now the last dreadful change was made, 
the blue Hudson was crossed, Albany was far behind and she 
was fast nearing New York. Night and day she had traveled, 
always with the same dull, dreary sense of pain — ^the same 
idea that to her the world would never be pleasant — ^the sun- 
shine bright, or the flowers sweet again. Nervously she 
shrank from observation, and once when a lady behind her, 
who saw that she was weeping, touched her shoulder and 
said, ‘"What is the matter, little girl?’" she started with fear, 
but did not answer until the question was repeated — then she 
replied, “Oh, I'm so tired and sick, and the cars make such 
a noise." 

The lady was greatly interested in the child, as she thought 
her, and had she been going to New York would have still 
befriended her, but she left at Newburgh, and Marian was 
again alone. She had heard much of New York, but she had 
no conception of it, and when at last she was there, and 
followed a group through the depot up to Broadway, her head 
grew dizzy and her brain whirled with the deafening roar. 
Cincinnati, Louisville, Buffalo, and Albany combined were 
nothing to this, and in her confusion she would have fallen 
upon the pavement had not the crowd forced her along. Once, 
as a richly dressed young lady brushed past her, she raised 
her eyes and meekly asked where “Mrs. DanieJ Burt lived 1" 

The question was too preposterous to be heeded, even if it 
were heard, and the lady moved on, leaving Marian as ignor- 
ant as ever of Mrs. Daniel Burt's whereabouts. To three or 
four other ladies the same question was put, but Mrs. Daniel 
Burt was evidently not generally known in New York, for no 
one paid the slightest attention to her. 

Marian Grey 45 


46 


MARIAN GREY 


Poor Marian! she knew but little of the great Babylon to 
which she had come, and she thought it made up of carts, 
hacks, omnibuses, and people, all hurrying in every direction 
as fast as they could go. It made her feel dizzy and cross- 
eyed to look at them, and leaning back against an iron railing, 
she fell into a kind of conscious sleep, in which she never 
forgot for an instant the roar which troubled her so much, or 
lost the gnawing pain at her heart. In this way she sat for 
a long time, while hundreds of people went by, some glancing 
sideways at her, and thinking she did not look like an ordinary 
beggar, while others did not notice her at all. 

At last, as the confusion increased, she roused up, staring 
about her with a wild, startled gaze. People were going home, 
and she watched them as they struggled fiercely and ineffect- 
ually to stop some loaded omnibus, and then rushed higher 
up to a more favorable locality. 

She had no idea of the lapse of time, and she fancied that 
it might be coming night, when a thought stole over her, 
‘‘What shall I do, then?"' 

And while she sat there thus, the night shadows began to 
fall — the people walked faster and faster — ^the omnibus drivers 
swore louder and louder — ^the crowd became greater and 
greater — and over Marian there stole a horrid dread of the 
hour when the uproar would cease; when the streets would 
be empty, the folks all gone, and she be there alone with the 
blear-eyed old woman who had seated herself near by, and 
seemed to be watching her. 

“I will ask once more,’' she thought. “Maybe some of these 
people knows where she lives.” And, throwing back her veil, 
she half rose to her feet, when a tall, disagreeable-looking 
fellow bent over her and said: “What can I do for you, 
my pretty lass ?” 

For an instant Marian’s heart stood still, for there was 
something in the rowdy’s appearance exceedingly repulsive, 
but when he repeated his question, she answered timidly, “I 
want to find Mrs. Daniel Burt.” 

“Oh, yes, Mrs. Daniel Burt. I know the old lady well — 
lives just round the corner. Come with me and I’ll show you 
the way,” and the great red, rough hand was about to touch 
the little slender white one resting on Marian’s lap, when a 
blow from a brawny fist sent the rascal reeling upon the 
pavement, while a round, good-humored face looked into 
Marian’s, and a kindly voice said, “Did the villain insult you, 
little girl?” 

“Yes — I reckon not — I don’t know,” answered Marian trem- 


MARIAN GREY 


47 


bling with fright, while her companion continued: ^‘’Tis the 
first time he ever spoke civil to a woman, then. I know the 
scamp well — but what are you sittin’ here alone for when 
everybody else is goin^ hum?’^ 

Marian felt intuitively that he could be trusted, and she 
sobbed aloud: haven’t any home, nor friends, nor any- 

thing.” 

‘^Great Moses !” said the young man, scanning her closely, 
‘^you ain’t a beggar — that’s as sure as my name is Ben Burt — ■ 
and why are you sittin’ here for, anyway?” 

Marian did not heed his question, so eagerly did she catch 
at the name mentioned. 

‘‘Oh, sir,” she exclaimed, grasping his arm; “are you any 
relation to Mrs. Daniel Burt, who once lived with the Ray- 
monds at Yonkers?” 

“Well, ra-ally, I don’t know,” answered the honest-hearted 
Yankee. “And if this don’t beat all. I wouldn’t wonder if I 
was once connected to Mrs. Daniel Burt, bein’ 'he brung me 
up from a little shaver, and has licked me mor’n a hundred 
times. She’s my mother, and if it’s her you’re looking for, we 
may as well be travelin’, for she lives all of three miles from 
here.” 

“Three miles,” repeated Marian, “that other man said just 
around the corner. What made him tell such a lie?” 

“You tell,” answered Ben, with a knowing wink, which, 
however, failed to enlighten Marian, who was too glad at 
having found a protector to ask any questions, and unhesitat- 
ingly taking Ben’s offered arm, she went with him up the 
street, until he found the car he wished to take. 

When they were comfortably seated and she had leisure to 
examine him more closely, she found him to be a tall, athletic, 
good-natured looking young man, betraying but little refine- 
ment either in personal appearance or manner, but manifest- 
ing in all he did a kind, noble heart, which won her good 
opinion at once. Greatly he wondered who she was and 
whence she came, but he refrained asking her any questions, 
thinking he should know the whole if he waited. It seemed 
to Marian a long, long ride, and she was beginning to wonder 
if it would ever end, when Ben touched her arm and signified 
that they were to alight. 

“Come right down this street a rod or so, and we’re there,” 
said he, and following whither he led, Marian was soon climb- 
ing a long, narrow stairway to the third story of what seemed 
to her a not very pleasant block of buildings. 

But if it were dreary without, the sight of a cheerful blaz- 


48 


MARIAN GREY 


ing fire, which was disclosed to view as Ben opened a narrow 
door, raised her spirits at once, and taking in at a glance the 
tidy rag-carpet, the stuffed rocking-chairs, the chintz-covered 
lounge, the neat looking supper table spread for two, and 
the neater looking woman who was making the toast, 
she felt the pain at her heart give way a little, just a little, 
and bounding toward the woman, she cried: “You don’t know 
me, I suppose. I am little Marian Lindsey, Col. Raymond’s 
ward.’" 

Mrs. Burt, for it was she, came near dropping her plate of 
buttered toast in her surprise, and setting it down upon the 
hearth, she exclaimed: “The last person upon earth I ex- 
pected to see. Where did you come from, and how happened 
you to run afoul of Ben?” 

“I ran afoul of her,” answered Ben. “I found her a cryin’ 
on the pavement with that rascal of a Joe Black makin’ b’lieve 
he was well acquainted with you, and that you lived jest 
around the corner.” 

“Mercy me,” ejaculated Mrs. Burt, “but do tell a body 
what you’re here for ; not but I’m glad to see you, but it seems 
so queer. How is the old colonel, and that son I never see — 
Ferdinand, ain’t it — no, Frederic, that’s what they call him?” 

At the mention of Frederic, Marian gave a choking sob 
and replied: “Col. Raymond is dead, and Frederic — oh, Mrs. 
Burt, please don’t ask me about him now, or I shall surely 
die.” 

“There’s some bedevilment of some kind. I’ll warrant,’^ 
muttered Ben, who was a champion of all womankind. 
“There’s been the old Harry to pay, or she wouldn’t be a 
runnin’ off here, the villain,” and in fancy, he dealt the 
unknown Frederic a far heavier blow than he had given the 
scapegrace Joe. 

“Well, never mind now,” said Mrs. Burt, soothingly. “Take 
off your things and have some supper; you must be hungry, 
I’m sure. How long is it since you ate?” 

“Oh, I don’t know,” answered Marian, a deathli* e paleness 
overspreading her face ; “not since yesterday, I reckon. 
Where am I? Ever3^hing is so confused!” And overcome 
with hunger, exhaustion and her late fright, Marian fainted in 
her chair. 

Taking her in his arms as if she had been an infant, Ben 
carried her to the spare room, which, in accordance with her 
New England habits, Mrs. Burt always kept for company, 
and there on the softest of all soft beds he laid her downj 
then, while his mother removed her bonnet and shawb he ran 


MARIAN GREY 


49 


for water and camphor, chafing with his own rough fingers 
her little clammy hands, and bathing her forehead until 
Marian came back to consciousness. 

''There, swallow some cracker and tea, and you'll feel better 
directly," said Mrs. Burt; and, like a very child, Marian 
obeyed, feeling that there was something delicious in being 
thus cared for after the dreadful day she had passed. "You 
needn’t talk to us tonight. There’ll be time enough tomor- 
row,’’ continued Mrs. Burt, as she saw her about to speak ; and 
fixing her comfortably in bed, she went back to Ben, to whom 
she told all that she knew concerning Marian and the family 
with whom she had lived. 

It was a deep, dreamless sleep which came to Marian that 
night, for her strength was utterly exhausted, and in the at- 
mosphere of kindness surrounding her, there was something 
soothing to her irritated nerves. But when the morning 
broke and the roar of the waking city fell again upon her ear, 
she started up, and gazing about her room, thought : "Where 
am I, and what is it that makes my heart ache so?" 

Full soon she remembered what it was, and burying her 
face in the pillow, she wept again bitterly, wondering what 
they were doing far away at Redstone Hall, and if anybody 
but Alice was sorry she had gone. A moment after Mrs. 
Burt’s kind voice was heard asking how she was, and bid- 
her be still and rest. But this it was impossible for Marian to 
do. She could not lie there in that little room and listen to 
the din which began to produce upon her the same dizzy, be- 
wildering effect it had done the previous day, when she sat on 
the pavement and saw the omnibuses go by. She must be up 
and tell the kind people her story, and then, if they said go, 
she would go away — go back to those graves she had seen 
yesterday, and lying down in some hollow where that horrid 
man and blear-eyed woman could not find her, she would die, 
and Frederic would surely never know what had become of 
her. She knew she could trust both Mrs. Burt and Ben, and 
when breakfast was over, she unhesitatingly told them every- 
thing, interrupted occasionally by Ben’s characteristic ex- 
clamations of surprise and his mother’s milder ejaculations of 
wonder. 

Mrs. Burt’s first impulse was, that if she were Marian she 
would claim her property, though of course she would not live 
with Frederic. But Ben said "No" — ^he’d work his finger 
isaails off before she should go back. "lis mother wanted some- 
one with her when he was gone, and Marian was sent them by 
Providence. "Anyway," said he, "she shall live with us a 


60 


MARIAN GREY 


while, and we’ll see what turns up. Maybe this man’ll begin 
to like her, now she’s gone. It’s nater to do so, and some 
day he’ll walk in here and claim her.” 

This picture was not a displeasing one to Marian, who 
through her tears smiled gratefully upon Ben, mentally re- 
solving that should she ever be mistress of Redstone Hall she 
should remember him. And then it was arranged that Marian 
Grey, as she chose to be called, should remain where she was, 
for a time at least, and if no husband came for her, she 
should stay there always as the daughter of Mrs. Burt, whose 
motherly heart always yearned toward the unfortunate orphan. 

Nearly all of Ben’s life had been passed in factories, and 
though now home on a visit, he was still connected with one 
in Ware, Mass. 

Marian began to think the world was not so cheerless as she 
had thought it was. Still the old, dreary pain was in her 
heart — a desolate, homesick feeling, which kept her thoughts 
ever in one place and on one single object — ^the place, Red- 
stone Hall, and the object, Frederic Raymond. And as the 
days went by, the feeling grew into an intense, longing de- 
sire to see her old home once more — ^to look into Frederic’s 
face — ^to listen to his voice, and know if he were sorry that 
she was gone. This feeling Mrs. Burt did not seek to dis- 
courage, for though she was learning fast to love the friend- 
less girl, she knew it would be better for her to be reconciled 
to Mr. Raymond, and when one day, nearly four weeks after 
Marian’s arrival, the latter said to her, ‘T mean to write to 
Frederic and ask him to take me back,” she did not oppose the 
plan, for she saw how the great grief was wearing the young 
girl’s life away, making her haggard and pale, and writing 
lines of care upon the childish face. 

That night there came to Marian a paper from Ben, who, 
having far outstayed his time, had returned the week before 
to Ware. Listlessly she tore open the wrapper, and, glancing 
at the first page, was about throwing it aside, when a marked 
paragraph arrested her attention, and, with burning cheeks 
and fast-beating heart, she read that ‘"Frederic Raymond 
would gladly receive any information of a young girl who had 
disappeared mysteriously from Redstone Hall.” 

“Oh !” she exclaimed, springing to her feet, “I am going 
home — ^back to Frederic. He’s sent for me — see 1” and she 
pointed out to Mrs. Burt the advertisement. “Can I go to- 
night ?” she continued. “Is there a train ? Oh, I am so glad.’' 

Mrs. Burt, however, was more moderate in her feelings. 
Mr. Raymond could scarcely do less than advertise, she 


MARIAN GREY 


51 


tiiought, and to her this did not mean that he wished the fugi- 
tive to return for any love he bore for her. Still, she would 
not dash Marian’s hopes at once, though she would save her 
from the cold reception she felt sure she would meet, should 
she return to Redstone Hall, unannounced. So, when the 
first excitement of Marian’s joy had abated, she said: ‘‘I 
should write to Mr. Raymond, just as I first thought of doing. 
Then he’ll know where you are, and he will come for you, if 
he wants you, of course.” 

That ^fif he wants you” grated harshly on Marian’s ear; 
but, after her past experience, she did not care to thrust herself 
upon him, unless sure that he wished it, and concluded to fol- 
low Mrs. Burt’s advice. So she sat down and wrote to him a 
second letter, telling him where she was, and how she came 
there, and asking him, in her childlike way, to let her come 
back again. 

''Oh, I want to come home so much,” she wrote; "and if 
you’ll only let me, you needn’t ever call me your wife, nor 
make believe I am — at least, not until you love me, and I get 
to be a lady. I’ll try so hard to learn. I’ll go away to school, 
and maybe, after a good many years are gone you won’t be 
ashamed of me, though I shall never be as beautiful as 
Isabel. If you don’t want me back, Frederic, you must tell 
me so. I can’t feel any worse than I did that day when I sat 
here in the street and wished I could die. I didn’t die then, 
maybe I shouldn’t now, and if you do hate me. I’ll stay away 
and never write again — never let you know whether I am 
alive or not; and after seven years, Ben Burt says, you will 
be free to marry Isabel. She’ll wait for you, I know. She 
won’t be too old then, will she? I shall be almost twenty- 
three, but that is young, and the years will seem so long 
to me if you do not let me return. May I, Frederic? Write, 
and tell me yes; but direct to Mrs. Daniel Burt, as I shall 
then be more sure to get it. I dare not hope you’ll come for 
me, but if you only would, and quick, too, for my heart aches 
so, and my head is tired and sick with the dreadful noise. Do 
say I may come home. God will bless you, if you do, I’m 
sure; and if you don’t. I’ll ask Him to bless you the 
same.” 

The letter closed with another assurance that she gave to 
him cheerfully all her fortune — that she neither blamed his 
father, nor himself, nor Isabel, nor anybody. All she asked 
was to come back! 

And so, while Marian in the city waits and watches for the 
message which will, perhaps, bid her come back, and Ben, in 


52 


MARIAN GREY 


the noisy factory, waits also for a message which shall say 
she has gone, and his mother is again alone, the letter travels 
on, and one pleasant afternoon, when the clerk at Cincinnati 
makes up the mail for Frankfort, he puts that important mis- 
sive with the rest and sends it on its way. 


CHAPTER VII 


ISABEL HUNTINGTON 

All day and all night it had rained with a steady, unrelenting 
pour, and when the steamboat which plies between Cincinnati 
and Frankfort stopped at the latter place, two ladies from the 
lower deck looked drearily over the city, one frowning im- 
patiently at the mud and rain, while the other wished in her 
heart that she was safely back in her old home, and had never 
consented to this foolish trip. This wish, however, she dared 
not express to her companion, who, though calling her mother, 
was in reality the mistress — ^the one whose word was law, and 
to whose wishes everything else must bend. 

^This is delightful,” the younger lady exclaimed, as holding 
up her fashionable traveling dress, and glancing ruefully at 
her thin kid gaiters, she prepared to walk the plank. ‘‘This 
is charming. I wonder if they always have such weather in 
Kentucky.” 

‘^No, miss, very seldom, ’cept on ^strordinary ’casions,” said 
the polite African, who was holding an umbrella over her 
head, and who felt bound to defend his native State. 

The lady tossed her little bonnet proudly, and turning to her 
mother, continued : ‘'Have you any idea how we are to get to 
Redstone Hall?” 

At this question an old gray-haired negro, who with several 
other idlers, was standing near, came forward and said: “If 
it’s Redstone Hall whar miss wants to go, I’s here with Mar- 
ster Frederic’s carriage. I come to fotch a man who’s been 
out thar trying to buy a house of marster in Louisville.” 

At this announcement the faces of both ladies brightened 
perceptibly, and pointing out their baggage to the negro, who 
was none other than our old friend Uncle Phil, they went to a 
public house to wait until the carriage came round for them. 

“What do you suppose Frederic will think when he sees 
us,” the mother asked, and the daughter replied: “He won’t 
think anything, of course. It is perfectly proper that we 
should visit our relations, particularly when we are as near to 
them as Dayton, and they are in affliction, too. He would 
have been displeased if we had returned without giving him 
a call.” 

Marian Grey 


53 


MARIAN GREY 


54 


From these remarks the reader will readily imagine that the 
ladies in question were Mrs. Huntington and her daughter 
Isabella. They had decided at last to visit Dayton, and had 
started for that city a few days after the receipt of Frederic's 
letter announcing his father's death; consequently they knew 
nothing of the marriage, and the fact that Col. Raymond was 
dead only increased Isabel's desire to visit Redstone Hall, for 
she rightly guessed that Frederic was now so absorbed in 
business that it would be long ere he came to New Haven 
again; so she insisted upon coming, and as she found her 
Ohio aunt not altogether agreeable, she had shortened her 
visit there, and now with her mother sat waiting in the Man- 
sion House for the appearance of Phil and the carriage. She 
knew that the Kentuckians were proverbial for their hospi- 
tality, and feeling sure that no one would think it at all im- 
proper for her mother and herself to visit their cousin, as 
she called Frederic, she determined, if possible, to prolong 
that visit until asked to stay with him always. So when Phil 
came around with the carriage, she said to him, quite as a 
matter of course : *‘How is Cousin Frederic since his father’s 
death?" 

''Jest tolable, thankee," returned the negro, at the same time 
saying, "Be you marster’s kin?" 

"Certainly," answered Isabel, while the negro bowed low, 
for anyone related to his master was a person of distinction 
to him. 

Isabel had heard Frederic speak of Marian, and when the^^ 
were nearly halfway home, she put her head from the window 
and said to Phil : "Where is the young girl who used to live 
with Col Raymond — Marian was her name, I think?” 

"Bless you,” returned the negro, cracking his whip nerv- 
ously, "hain't you hearn how she done got married to marster 
mighty nigh three weeks ago?" 

"Married ! Frederic Raymond married !" screamed 
Isabel; "it is not true. How dare you tell me such a false- 
hood ?'^ 

" 'Strue as preachin', and a heap truer than some on't, for I 
seen 'em joined with these very eyes," said Phil, and, glancing 
backward at the white face leaning from the window, he drove 
rapidly on, thinking he wouldn’t tell her that the bride had 
run away — he would let Frederic do that. 

Meantime, Isabel, inside, was choking — gasping — crying — 
wringing her hands and insisting that her mother should ask 
the negro again if what he had told them was so. 

"Man — sir^" said Mrs. Huntington, putting her bonnet out 


JVIARIAN GREY 


55 


into the rain, ‘^is Mr. Frederic Raymond really married to 
that girl Marian?'^ 

^‘Yes, as true as I^m sittin’ here. Thursday ’ll be three 
weeks since the weddinV' was the reply, and with another 
hysterical sob, Isabel laid her head in her mother’s lap. 

Nothing could exceed her rage, mortification, and disap- 
pointment, except, indeed, her pride, and this was stronger 
than all her other emotions and that which finally aroused her 
to action. She would not turn back now, she said. She would 
brave the villain and show him that she did not care. She would 
put herself by the side of his wife and let him see the contrast. 
She had surely heard from him that Marian was plain, and in 
fancy, she saw how she would overshadow her rival and make 
Frederic feel keenly the difference between them, and then she 
thought of the discarded Rudolph. If everything else should 
fail, she could win him back — he had some money, and she 
would rather be his wife than nobody’s ! 

By this time they had left the highway, for Redstone Hall 
was more than a mile from the turnpike, and Isabel found 
ample opportunity for venting her ill-nature. “Such a road as 
that she never saw before, and she’d like to know if folks in 
Kentucky lived in the lots. No wonder they were such 
heathens ! you nigger,” she exclaimed, as Phil drove through 
a brook; “are you going to tip us over, or what?” 

“Wonder if she ’spects a body is gwine around the brook,’* 
muttered Phil, and as the carriage wheels were now safe from 
the water, he stopped and said to the indignant lady, “mebby 
miss would rather walk the rest of the way. Thar’s a heap 
wus places in the cornfield, whar we’ll be pretty likely to get 
oversot.” 

“Go on,” snapped Isabel, who knew she could not walk quite 
as well as the mischievous driver. 

Accordingly they went on, and ere long came in sight of the 
house, which even in that drenching rain looked beautiful to 
Isabel, and all the more beautiful because she felt that she had 
lost it. On the piazza little Alice stood, her fair hair blowing 
over her face and her ear turned to catch the first sound which 
should tell her of what she hoped was true. Old Dinah, who 
saw the carriage in the distance, had said there was someone 
in it, and instantly Alice thought of Marian, and going out 
upon the piazza, she waited impatiently until Phil drove up 
to the door. 

“There are four feet,” she said, as the strangers came up 
the steps; “four feet, but none are Marian’s,” and she turned 
sadly away, when she accidentally trod upon the long skirt of 


66 


MARIAN GREY 


Isabel, who snatching it away, said angrily, ‘^Child, what are 
you doing — stepping on my dress 

didn’t mean to, I’m blind,” answered Alice, her lip 
quivering and her eyes filling with tears. 

^‘Never you mind that she-dragon,” whispered Uncle Phil, 
thrusting into the child’s hand a paper of candy, which had 
the effect of consoling her somewhat, both for her disappoint- 
ment and her late unmerited reproof. 

‘Who is that ar?” asked Dinah, appearing upon the piazza 
just as Isabel passed into the hall. “Some of marster’s kin !” 
she repeated after Uncle Phil. “For the Lord’s sake, what 
fetched ’em here this rainy day, when we’s gwine to have an 
onery dinner — no briled hen, nor turkey, nor nothin.’ Be they 
quality, think?” 

“ ’Spects the young one wants to be if she ain’t,” returned 
Phil, with a very expressive wink, which had the effect of 
enlightening Dinah with regard to his opinion. 

“Some low-flung truck. I’ll warrant,” said she, as she fol- 
lowed them into the parlor, where Isabel’s stately bearing and 
glittering black eyes awed her into a low courtesy, as she said : 
“You’re very welcome to Redstone Hall, I’m sure. Who shall 
I tell marster wants to see him ?” 

“Two ladies, simply,” was Isabel’s haughty answer, and old 
Dinah departed, whispering to herself : “Two ladies simple ! 
She must think I don’t know nothin’ ’bout grarmar to talk in 
that kind of way, but she’s mistakened. I hain’t lived in the 
fust families for nothin’,” and knocking at Frederic’s door, 
she told him that two simple ladies were down in the parlor 
and wanted him. 

“Who?” he asked in some surprise, and Dinah replied: 

“Anyway, that’s what she said — the tall one, with great 
black eyes jest like coals of fire. Phil picked ’em up in Frank- 
ford, whar they got off the boat. They’s some o’ yer kin, they 
say.” 

Frederic did not wish to hear any more, for he suspected 
who they were. It was about this time they had talked of 
visiting Dayton, and motioning Dinah from the room, he 
pressed his hands to his forehead, and thought: “Must I 
suffer this, too? Oh, why did she come to look at me in my 
misery ?” Then, forcing an unnatural calmness, he started for 
the parlor, where, as he had feared, he stood face to face with 
Isabel Huntington. 

She was very pale, and in her black eyes there was a hard, 
dangerous expression, from which he gladly turned away, ad- 
dressing first her mother, who, rising to meet him, said : 


MARIAN GREY 


67 


‘We have accepted your invitation, you see/^ 

“Yes, ma'am,’" he replied, and he was trying- to stammer out 
a welcome, when Isabel, who all the time had been aching to 
pounce upon him, chimed in : 

“Where is Mrs. Raymond? I am dying to see my new 
cousin,” and in the eyes of black there was a reddish gleam, 
as if they might ere long emit sparks of living fire. 

“Mrs. Raymond!” repeated Frederic, the name dropping 
slowly from his lips. “Mrs. Raymond 1 Oh, Isabel, don't you 
know? Haven't you heard?” 

“Certainly I have,” returned the young lady, watching him 
as a fierce cat watches its helpless prey. “Of course I have 
heard of your marriage, and have come to congratulate you. 
Is your wife well?” 

Frederic raised his hand to stop the flippant speech, and 
when it was finished he rejoined: “But haven’t you heard 
the rest — ^the saddest part of all ? Marian is dead ! — drowned 
— at least we think she must be, for she went away on our 
wedding night, and no trace of her can be found.” 

The fiery gleam was gone from the black eyes — ^the color 
came back to the cheeks — ^the finger-nails ceased their painful 
pressure upon the tender flesh — the shadow of a smile dimpled 
the corner of the mouth, and Isabel was herself again. 

“Dead! Drowned!” she exclaimed. “How did it happen? 
What was the reason ? Dreadful, isn't it ?” and going over to 
where Mr. Raymond stood, she looked him in the face, with an 
expression she meant should say: “I am sorry for you,” but 
which really did say something quite the contrary. 

“I cannot tell you why she went away,” Frederic answered, 
“but there was a reason for it, and it has cast a shadow over 
my whole life.” 

“Marian was a mere child, I had always supposed,” sug- 
gested Isabel, anxious to get at the reason why he had so soon 
forgotten herself. 

“Did you get my last letter — ^the one written to you ?” asked 
Frederic, and upon Isabel’s replying that she did not, he 
briefly stated a few facts concerning his marriage, saying it 
was his father’s dying request, and he could not well avoid do- 
ing as he had done, even if he disliked Marian. “But I 
didn’t dislike her,” he continued, and the hot blood rushed into 
his face. “She was a gentle, generous-hearted girl, and had 
she lived, I would have made her happy.” 

If by this speech Frederic Raymond thought to deceive 
Isabel Huntington, he was mistaken, for, looking into his eyes 
she read a portion of the truth and knew there was something 


58 


MARIAN GREY 


back of all — a something between himself and his father 
which had driven him to the marriage. What it was she did 
not care then to know. She was satisfied that the bride was 
gone — and when Frederic narrated more minutely the par- 
ticulars of her going, the artful girl said to herself : ''She is 
dead beyond a doubt, and when I have Redstone Hall, I shall 
know it, and mother, too!^^ 

Frederic would rather that Isabel had never come to Red- 
stone Hall, but now that she was there, he did not wish her 
away. It would be inhospitable, he said, and when next morn- 
ing she came down to breakfast, bright, fresh and elegant in 
her tasteful wrapper, he felt a pang, as he thought: "Had 
I done right, she might have been the mistress of Redstone 
Hall,’’ but it could not be now, he said, even if Marian were 
dead, and all that day he struggled manfully between his duty 
and his inclination, while Isabel dealt out her highest card, 
ingrafting herself into the good graces of the Smitherses by 
speaking to them pleasant, familiar words, exalting herself in 
the estimation of the Higginses by her lofty, graceful bear- 
ing, and winning Dinah’s friendship by praising Victoria 
Eugenia, and asking if that fine-looking man who drove the 
carriage was her husband. Then, in the evening, when the 
lamps were lighted in the parlor, she opened the piano and 
filled the house with the rich melody of her cultivated voice., 
singing a sad, plaintive strain, which reminded Alice of poor, 
lost Marian, and carried Frederic back to other days, when, 
with a feeling of pride, he had watched her snowy fingers as 
they gracefully swept the keys. He could not look at then? 
now — he dared not look at her, in her ripe, glowing beauty; 
and he left the room, going out upon the piazza, where he 
wiped great drops of sweat from his face, and almost cursed 
the fate which had made it a sin for him to love the dark- 
haired Isabel. She knew that he was gone, and rightly divining 
the cause, she dashed off into a stirring, dancing tune, which 
brought the negroes to the door, where they stood admiring 
her playing, and praising her queenly form. 

"That’s somethin’ like it,” whispered Hetty, beating time to 
the lively strain. "That sounds like Miss Beatrice did when 
she done played the planner. I ’dare for’t, I eenamost wish 
Marster Frederic had done chose her. ’Case yer know, 
t’other one done drowned herself the fust night,” she added, 
quickly, as she met Dinah’s rebuking glance. 

Dinah admired Isabel, but she could not forget Marian; 
though like her sex, whether black or white, she speculated 
Upon the future, when "Marster Frederic would be done 


MARIAN GREY 


69 


mournin’/' and she wondered if ^^old miss/’ meaning Mrs. 
Huntington, would think it necessary to stay there, too. Thus 
several days went by, and so pleasant was it to Frederic to 
have someone in the house who could divert him from his 
gloomy thoughts, that he began to dread the time when he 
would be alone again. But could he have looked into the heart 
of the fair lady, he would have seen no immediate cause of 
alarm. Isabel did not intend to leave her present quarters im- 
mediately, and to this end all her plans were laid. From what 
she had heard she believed Marian Lindsey was dead, and if 
so, she would not again trust Frederic away from her in- 
fluence. Redstone Hall needed a head — a housekeeper — and 
as her mother was an old lady, and also a relative of Frederic, 
she was just the one to fill that post. Their house in New 
Haven was only rented until March, and by writing to some 
friends they could easily dispose of their furniture until such 
time as they might want it. Alice needed a governess, for she 
heard Frederic say so; and though the little pest — this was 
what she called her to herself — did not seem to like her, she 
could teach her as well as anyone. It would be just as proper 
for her to be Alice’s governess as for anyone else, and a little 
more so, for her mother would be with her. 

And this arrangement she brought about with the most 
consummate skill, first asking Frederic if he knew of any 
situation in Kentucky which she could procure as a teacher. 
That was one object of her visit, she said. She must do some- 
thing for a living, and as she would rather teach either in a 
school, or in a private family, she should be greatly obliged 
to him if he would assist her a little. Hardly knowing what 
he was doing, Frederic said something about Alice’s having 
needed a governess for a long time; and, quickly catching at 
it, Isabel rejoined: 

^'Oh ! but you know I couldn’t possibly remain here, unless 
mother stayed with me. Now, if you’ll keep her as a kind of 
overseer-in-general of the house. I’ll gladly undertake the 
charge of dear little Alice’s education. She does not fancy 
me, I think, but I’m sure I can win her love. I can that of 
almost anyone — children, I mean, of course”; and the beauti- 
ful, fascinating eyes looked out of the window quite indiffer- 
ently, as if their owner were utterly oblivious of the fierce 
struggle in Frederic’s bosom. 

It was several days before Alice was told that Isabel was to 
be her governess, and then she rebelled at once. Bursting into 
tears, she hid her face in Dinah’s lap, and sobbed: can’t 

learn of her. I don’t like her. What shall I do ?” 


60 


MARIAN GREY 


wish to goodness I had larninV' answered Dinah, “and 
I’d hear you say over that foolishness ’bout the world’s turnin’ 
round and niakin’ us stan’ on our heads half the time, but I 
hain’t, and if I’s you I’d make the best on’t. I’ll keep my eye 
on her, and if she makes you do the fust thing you don’t want 
to, I’ll gin her a piece of my mind. I ain’t afraid on her. 
Why, Gibson’s niggers say how they hearn Miss Agnes say 
she used to make her own bed whar she come from, and wash 
dishes, too ! Think o’ that !” 

Thus comforted, Alice dried her tears, and hunting up the 
books from which she had once recited to Marian, she de- 
clared herself ready for her lessons at any time. 

“Let it be tomorrow, then,” said Isabel, who knew that 
Frederic was going to Lexington, and that she could not see 
him even if she were not occupied with Alice. 

So, the next morning, after Frederic was gone, Alice went 
to the schoolroom, and drawing her little chair to Isabel’s side, 
laid her books upon the lady’s lap, and waited for her to begin. 

“You must read to me,” she said, “until I know what ’tis, 
and then I’ll recite it to you.” 

But Isabel was never intended for a teacher, and she found 
it very tedious reading the same thing over and over, par- 
ticularly as Alice seemed inattentive and not at all inclined to 
remember. At last she said impatiently: “For the pity’s 
sake, how many more times must I read it ? Can’t you learn 
anything ?” 

“Don’t — don’t speak so,” sobbed Alice. “I’m thinking of 
Marian, and how she used to be with me. It’s just six weeks 
today since she went away. Oh, I wish she’d come back. Do 
you believe she’s dead?” 

Isabel was interested in anything concerning Marian, and 
closing the book, she began to question the child, asking her 
among other things if Marian did not leave a letter for Mr. 
Raymond, and if she knew what was in it. 

“No one knows,” returned the child; “he never told — but 
here’s mine,” and drawing from her bosom the soiled note, 
she passed it to Isabel, who scrutinized it closely, particularly 
the handwriting. 

“Of course she’s dead, or she would have been heard from 
ere this,” she said, passing the note back to Alice, who, not 
feeling particularly comforted, made but little progress in her 
studies that morning, and both teacher and pupil were glad 
when the lessons of the day were over. 

Before starting for Lexington, Frederic had sent Josh on 
some errand to Frankfort, and just after dinner the negro 


MARIAN GREY 


61 


returned. Isabel was still alone upon the piazza when he came 
up, and as she was expecting news from New Haven, she 
asked if he stopped at the post office. 

*‘Ye-e-us ’m,'' began the stuttering negro; ‘^an’ I d-d-d-one 
got a h-h-eap on 'em, too," and Josh gave her six letters — one 
for herself and five for Frederic. 

Hastily breaking the seal of her own letter, she read that 
their matters at home were satisfactorily arranged — a tenant 
had already been found for their house, and their furniture 
would be safely stowed away. Hearing her mother in the 
hall, she handed the letter to her and then went to the library 
to dispose of Frederic's. As she was laying them down she 
glanced at the superscriptions, carelessly, indifferently, until 
she came to the last, the one bearing the New York post- 
mark; then, with a nervous start she caught it up again and 
examined it more closely, while a sickening, horrid fear crept 
through her flesh — ^her heart gave one fearful throb and then 
lay like some heavy, pulseless weight within her bosom. Could 
it be that she had seen that writing before? Had the dead 
wife returned to life, and was she coming back to Redstone 
Hall? The thought was overwhelming, and for a moment 
Isabel Huntington was tempted to break that seal and read. 
But she dared not, for her suspicion might be false ; she would 
see Alice's note again, and seeking out the child, she asked 
permission to take the letter which Marian had written. Alice 
complied with her request, and darting away to the library, 
Isabel compared the two. They were the same. There could 
be no mistake, and in the intensity of her excitement, she felt 
her black hair loosening at its roots. 

‘Tt is from her, but he shall never see it, never !" she ex- 
claimed aloud, and her voice was so unnatural that she started 
at the sound, and turning, saw Alice standing in the door with 
an inquiring look upon her face, as if asking the meaning of 
what she had heard. 

Isabel quailed beneath the glance of that sightless child, 
and then sat perfectly still, while Alice said : ‘‘Miss Hunting- 
ton, are you here? Was it you who spoke?" 

Isabel made no answer, but trembling in every limb, shrank 
farther and farther back in her chair as the little, groping out- 
stretched arms came nearer and nearer to her. Presently, 
when she saw no escape, she forced a loud laugh, and said: 
“Fie, Alice. I tried to frighten you by feigning a strange 
voice. You want your letter, don't you? Here it is. I only 
wished to see if in reading it a second time I could get any 
clew to the mystery," and she gave the bit of paper back to 


62 


MARIAN GREY 


Alice, who, somewhat puzzled to understand what it all meant, 
left the room, and Isabel was again alone. Three times 
she caught up the letter with the intention of breaking 
its seal, and as often threw it down, for, unprincipled as she 
was, she shrank from that act, and still, if she did not know 
the truth, she should go mad, she said, and pressing her hands 
to her forehead, she thought what the result to herself would 
be were Marian really alive. 

“But she isn’t,’' she exclaimed. “I won’t have it so. She’s 
dead — she’s buried in the river.” But who was there in New 
York that wrote so much like her? She wished she knew, and 
she might now, too, by opening the letter. If it was from a 
stranger, she could destroy it, and he thinking it had been 
lost, would write again. She should die if she didn’t know, 
and maybe she should die if she did. 

At all events reality was more endurable than suspense, and 
glancing furtively around to make sure that no blind eyes were 
near, she snatched the letter from the table and broke the seal ! 
Even then she dared not read it, until she reflected that she 
could not give it to Frederic in this condition — she might as 
well see what it contained ; and wiping the cold moisture from 
her face she opened it and read, while her flesh seemed turn- 
ing to stone, and she could feel the horror creeping through 
her veins, freezing her blood and petrifying her very brain. 
Marian Lindsey lived! She was coming back again — back 
to her husband, and back to the home which was hers. There 
was enough in the letter for her to guess the truth, and she 
knew why another had been preferred to herself. For a 
moment even her lip curled with scorn at what she felt was 
an unmanly act, but this feeling was soon lost in the terrible 
thought that Marian might return. 

“Can it be ? Must it be ?” she whispered, as her hard, black 
eyes fastened themselves again upon the page blotted with 
Marian’s tears. “Seven years — seven years,” she continued; 
“I’ve heard of that before,” and into the wild tumult of her 
thoughts there stole a ray of hope. If she withheld the letter 
from Frederic, and she must withhold it now, he would never 
know what she knew. Possibly, too, Marian might die, and 
though she would have repelled the accusation, Isabel Hunt- 
ington was guilty of murder in her heart, as she sat there 
alone and planned what she would do. She was almost on the 
borders of insanity, for the disappointment to her now 'would 
be greater and more humiliating than before. She had no 
home to go to — her arrangements for remaining in Kentucky 
were all made., and Redstone Hall seemed to her so fair that 


MARIAN GREY 


63 


she would willingly wait twice seven years, if, at the expira- 
tion of that time she were sure of being its mistress. It was 
worth trying for, and though she had but little hope of suc- 
cess, the beautiful demon bent her queenly head and tried to 
devise some means of effectually silencing Marian, so that if 
there really were anything in the seven years the benefit 
would accrue to her. 

'^She's a little silly fool,” she said, *^and this Mrs. Daniel 
Burt she talked about is just as silly as herself. They’ll both 
believe whatever is told to them. I may never marry Fred- 
eric, it is true, but I’ll be revenged on Marian. What business 
had she to cross my path, the litt/e red-headed jade !” 

Isabel was growing excited, and as she dared do anything 
when angry, she resolved to send the letter back. 

'T can imitate his handwriting,” she thought; ‘T can do 
anything as I feel now,” and going to her room, she found the 
letter he had written to her mother. 

This she studied and imitated for half an hour, and at the 
end of that time wrote on the blank page of Marian’s letter, 
^‘Isabel Huntington is now the mistress of Redstone Hall.” 

^‘That will keep her still, I reckon,” she said, and taking a 
fresh envelope, she directed it to ‘‘Mrs. Daniel Burt,” as 
Marian had bidden Frederic to do. “ ’Twas a fortunate cir- 
cumstance, her telling him that, for ‘Marian Lindsey’ would 
have been observed at once,” she thought; and then, lest her 
resolution should fail her, she found Josh and bade him take 
the letter to the post office at the Forks of Elkhorn and not 
very far away. 

Nothing could suit Josh better than to ride, and stuttering 
out something which nobody could understand, he mounted his 
rather sorry-looking horse and was soon galloping out of 
sight. In the kitchen Mrs. Huntington heard of Josh’s desti- 
nation, and when next she met her daughter, she asked to 
whom she had been writing. 

“To someone, of course,” answered Isabel, at the same time 
intimating that she hoped she could have a correspondent 
without her mother troubling herself. 

The rudeness of this speech was forgotten by Mrs. Hunt- 
ington in her alarm at Isabel’s pale face, and she asked 
anxiously what was the matter. 

“Nothing but a wretched headache — teaching don’t agree 
with me,” was Isabel’s reply, and turning away she ran up the 
stairs to her room, where, throwing herself upon the bed, she 
tried to fancy it all a dream. 

Already was she reaping the fruit of the transgression, and 


(64 


MARIAN GREY 


when an hour later she heard the voice of Frederic in the hall, 
she stopped her ears, and, burying her face still closer in the 
pillows, wished that either Marian or herself had never seen 
the light of day. 


CHAPTER VIII 


FREDERIC AND ALICE 

All the day long Frederic had thought of Marian— thought 
of the little blue-eyed girl, who just six weeks before went 
away from him to die. To die ! Many, many times he said 
that to himself, and as often as he said it, he thought : ‘'Per- 
haps she is not dead,” until the belief grew strong within him 
that somewhere he should find her, that very day it might be. 
He wished he could, and take her back to Redstone Hall, 
where she would be a barrier between himself and the beau- 
tiful temptation which it was so hard for him to resist. Man- 
fully had he struggled against it, the temptation, going always 
from its presence when the eyes of lustrous black looked softly 
into his own, and when he heard, as he often did, the full, 
rich-toned voice singing merry songs, he stopped his ears lest 
the sweet music would touch a chord which he said was hushed 
forever. 

All about the house was dark, but on the piazza a little 
figure was standing, and as its dim outline was revealed to 
him, he said involuntarily: “That may be Marian, and I am 
glad, or at least I will be glad,” and he was hurrying on, when 
a light from the hall streamed out upon the figure, and he 
saw that it was Alice waiting for him. Still the impression 
was so strong that, after kissing her, he asked if no one had 
been at the hall that day. 

“No one,” she answered, and with a vague feeling of dis- 
appointment, he led her into the house. 

Alice’s heart was full that night, for accidentally she had 
heard Old Hetty and Lyd discussing the probable result of 
Isabel’s sojourn among them, and the very idea shocked her, 
as if they had trampled on Marian’s grave. 

“I’ll tell Frederic,” she said to herself, “and ask him if he 
IS going to marry her,” and, when, after his supper he went 
into the library to read the letters which Mrs. Huntington told 
him were there, she followed him thither. 

It was not Frederic’s nature to pet or notice children much, 
but in his sorrow he had learned to love the little helpless girl 
dearly, and when he saw her standing beside him with a wist- 
ful look upon her face, he smoothed her soft brown hair and 
said: “What does my blind bird want?” 

Marian Grey 65 


66 


MARIAN GREY 


‘Take me in your lap,” said Alice, “so I can feel your heart 
beat and know if you tell me true.” 

He complied with her request, and laying her head against 
his bosom, she began, “Be we much related?/^ 

“Second cousins, that's all.” 

“But you love me, don't you?” 

“Yes, very much.” 

“And I love you a heap,” returned the little girl. “1 didn't 
use to, though — ^till Marian went away. Frederic, Marian 
isn't dead!” and, lifting up her head, Alice looked at him 
with a truthful, earnest look, which seemed to say that she 
believed what she asserted. 

Frederic gasped a short, quick breath, and Alice continued: 
“Wouldn't it be very wicked for you to love anybody else? 
I don't mean me — ^because I'm a little blind girl — ^but to love 
somebody and marry them with Marian alive?” 

“Certainly it would be wicked,” he replied; and Alice con- 
tinued: “Aunt Hetty said you were going to marry Isabel^ 
and it almost broke my heart. I never thought before that 
Marian wasn't dead, but I knew it then. I felt her right 
there with us, and I've felt her ever since. Dinah, too, said 
it seemed to her just like Marian was alive, and that she 
hoped you wouldn't make — perhaps I ought not to tell 
you, but you don't care for Dinah — she hoped you wouldn't 
make a fool of yourself. Frederic, do you love Isabel 
Huntington ?” 

“Yes,” dropped involuntarily from the young man's lips> 
for there was something about that old little child which 
wrung the truth from him. 

“Did you love her before you married Marian?” 

“Yes,” he said again, for he could not help himself. 

There was silence a moment, and then Alice, who had been 
thinking of what he told her once before, said, interrogatively: 
“Marian found it out, and that was why she thought you 
didn't love her, and went away?” 

“That was one reason, but not the principal one.’^^ 

“Do you think Isabel as good as Marian ?” 

“No, not as good — not as good,” and Frederic was glad 
that he could pay this tribute to the lost one. 

After a moment Alice spoke again: 

“Frederic, do you believe Marian is dead?” 

“I have always thought so,” he answered, and Alice replied: 
“But you don't know for certain; and I want >ou to promise 
that until you do you won't make love to Isabel, nor marry 
her, nor anybody else, will you, Frederic?” and putting both 


MARIAN GREY 


67 


her little hands upon his forehead, she pushed back his hair 
and waited for his answer. 

Many times the young man had made that resolution, but 
the idea of thus promising to another was unpleasant, and he 
hesitated for a time ; then he said : 

^'Suppose we never can know for certain — would you have 
me live all my life alone?’' 

"‘No,” said Alice, '‘and you needn’t, either; but I’d wait 
ever so long, ten years, anyway, and before that time she’ll 
come, I’m sure. Dinah says maybe she will, and that perhaps 
we shan’t know her, she’ll be so changed — so handsome,” and 
as if the power of prophecy were on her, Alice pictured a 
beautiful woman who might come to them sometime as their 
lost Marian, and Frederic, listening to her, felt more willing 
to promise than he had before. 

A glow of hope was kindled within his own bosom, and 
when she finished, he said to her : 

"I will wait, Alice — wait ten years for Marian.” 

As to Marian, strong excitement had worn her strength 
away, and since she had sent the letter to Frederic, her rest- 
less anxiety for the answer made her so weak that she kept 
her bed nearly all the time, counting the days which must 
elapse ere she could possibly hope to hear, and then, when the 
full time was out, bidding Mrs. Burt to wait one more day be- 
fore she went to the office, so as to be sure and get it. She 
had made due allowance for delays, and now she was certain 
that it had come. She would sit up that day, she said, for she 
felt almost well; and if Frederic told her to come home, she 
should start tomorrow and get there Saturday night, and she 
fancied how people would stare at her, and be glad to see her, 
too, on Sunday, when she first went into church, for she 
"should go, anyway.” 

Exchanging her working dress for a more respectable de- 
laine, Mrs. Burt put over the kettle to boil, "for after her 
walk, she should want a cup of tea,” she said, and, leaving 
Marian to watch a pie baking in the oven, she started on her 
errand. 

"A letter — oh, have you a letter for me?” she attempted to 
say, when Mrs. Burt came in, but she could not articulate a 
word, and the good lady, wishing to tease her a little, leisurely 
took off her overshoes, hung up her shawl, and then said, as 
indifferently as if the happiness of a young life was not to be 
crushed by what she had in her pocket, "It rains awfully 
down street 1” 


68 


MARIAN GREY 


know — but the letter — ^was there a letter V* and Marian's 
blue eyes looked dark with her excitement. ^‘Yes, child, there 
was, but where 'twas mailed I don't know. 'Tis directed to 
me, and is from Kentucky, but I can’t make out the postmark 
more’n the dead. It’s some kind of forks, but that postmaster 
never set the Hudson afire with his writing." 

'Torks of Elkhorn," cried Marian, snatching at the letter. 
^^It’s Frederic’s superscription, too, and dated ever so many 
days ago. Dear Frederic, he didn’t wait a minute before he 
wrote," and she pressed to her lips the handwriting of Isabel 
Huntington ! 

The envelope was torn open — ^the inclosed sheet was 
withdrawn, but about it there was a strangely familiar look. 
Was there a film before Marian’s eyes ? Was she going blind, 
or did she recognize her own letter — ^the one she had sent ta 
Redstone Hall ? It was the same — for it said ‘^Dear Frederic" 
at the top, and ^^Marian" at the bottom ! And he had returned 
it to her unanswered — not a word — not a line — nothing but 
silence, as cold, as hard, and as terrible as the feeling settling 
down on Marian’s heart. But yes — ^there was one line — only 
one, and it read, oh, horror, could it be that he would mock 
her thus — ^that he would tear her bleeding heart and trample it 
beneath his feet, by offering her this cruel insult : 

“Isabel Huntington is now the mistress of Redstone Hall." 

This was the drop in the brimming bucket, and if she had 
suffered death when the great sorrow came upon her once be- 
fore, she suffered more now a hundredfold. In her ignorance she 
fancied they were married, for how else could Isabel be mistress 
there, and she comprehended at once the shame — the disgrace 
such a proceeding would bring to Frederic, and the wrong, the 
dishonor, the insult it brought to her. There was a look of 
anguish in her eye and a painful contraction of the muscles 
about her mouth. There were purple spots upon her flesh, 
which seemed wasting away even while she sat there, and a 
note of agony, rarely heard by human ear, was in her voice, 
as she cried: “No, no, no — it is too soon — too soon — any- 
thing but that," and the little Marian who, half an hour be- 
fore, had heard the ticking of the clock, lay in the arms of 
Mrs. Burt, a white, motionless thing, unconscious of pain, un- 
conscious of everything. 

Mrs. Burt thought she was dead, as did those who came 
at her loud call, but the old physician said there was life, add- 
ing, as he looked at the blue, pinched lips and shrunken face : 
“The more’s the pity, for she has had some awful blow and if 
she lives, she’ll probably be a raving maniac." 


MARIAN GREY 




Poor Marian! As time passed on the physician’s words 
seemed likely to be verified. For days she lay in the same 
deathlike stupor, and when at last she roused from it, ’twas 
only to tear her hair and rave in wild delirium. At first, Mrs. 
Burt, who had examined the letter, thought of writing to 
Frederic and telling him the result of his cruel message, the 
truth of which she did not believe ; but she seldom acted with- 
out advice, so she wrote first to Ben, who came quickly, cry- 
ing like a very child, and wringing his great rough hands 
when he saw the swaying, tossing form upon the bed and 
knew that it was Marian. 

'‘No, mother,” he said, "we won’t write. It’s a lie the vil- 
lain told her, but we will let him be till she’s dead. God will 
find him fast enough, the rascal 1” and Ben struck his fist 
upon the bureau as if he would like to take the management 
of Frederic into his own hands. 

It was a long and terrible sickness which came to Marian, 
and when the dilirium was on, the very elements of her nature 
seemed changed. For her hair she conceived an intense loath- 
ing; and clutching at her long tresses, she would tear them 
from her head and shake them from her fingers, whispering 
scornfully : 

"Go, go, you vile red things ! He hates you, he loathes you^ 
and so do I.” 

Ben stayed patiently by Marian, nor experienced one feel- 
ing of regret when he heard that, owing to his pro- 
longed absence, his place in Ware had been given to 
another. 

"Nobody cares,” he said; "I can find something to do if it’s 
nothin’ but sawin’ wood.” 

And when the winter snows were all fallen, and the early 
March sun shone upon the kitchen walls, Marian awoke at 
last to consciousness. She was out of danger, the physician 
said, though it might be long ere her health was fully restored. 
To Marian, this announcement brought but little joy. "She 
had hoped to die,” she said, "and thus be out of the way,” 
and then she spoke of Redstone Hall, asking if any tidings 
had come from there since the dreadful message she had re- 
ceived. There was none, for Isabel Huntington guarded her 
secret well, and Frederic Raymond knew nothing of the white, 
emaciated wreck which prayed each day that he might be 
happy with the companion he had chosen. 

"If he had only waited,” she said to Mrs. Burt and Ben 
one day when she was able to be bolstered up in bed, "if he 
had waited and not taken her so soon I shouldn’t care so 


70 


MARIAN GREY 


much, but it's awful to think of his living with her after I 
wrote that letter." 

‘‘Marian," said Ben, a little impatiently, “I'm naturally a 
fool, so everybody says, but I've sense enough to know that 
Mr. Raymond never went and married that woman so quick 
after you came away; 'tain't reasonable at all. Why, they'd 
mob him — ^tar and feather him — for you ain’t dead, and he’s 
no business with two wives." 

Marian's face was whiter than ever when Ben finished 
speaking, and a bright red spot burned on her cheek as she 
gasped: “You don’t, you can’t believe she’s there, and not his 
wife? That would be worse than anything else." 

“Of course I don’t," returned Ben. “My 'pinion is that she 
ain't there at all, and he only writ that to make a clean finish 
of you, or 'tany rate, so’t you wouldn’t be cornin' back to 
bother him. He calkerlates to have her bimeby, I presume — 
say in seven years." 

“Oh, I wish I knew," said Marian, and Ben replied, “would 
you rest any easier nights if you did?" 

“Yes, a heap,” was the answer, and the great blue eyes 
looked wistfully at Ben, as if anxious that he should clear up 
the mystery. 

“You might write,” suggested Mrs. Burt; but Marian shook 
her head, saying, “I wrote once, and you know my success.” 

“You certainly wouldn’t go back," continued Mrs. Burt; and 
Marian answered indignantly: “Never! I am sure he hates 
me now, and I shall not trouble him again. Perhaps he thinks 
me mean because I read the letter intended for him, and so 
found it all out. But I thought it was mine until I read a 
ways, and then I could not stop. My eyes wouldn’t leave the 
paper. Was it wrong in me, do you thinlc?" 

“It is what anybody would have done," answered Mrs. Burt, 
and, changing the subject entirely, Marian rejoined, “Oh, I 
do wish I knew about this Isabel." 

For a time Ben sat thinking; then striking his hands to- 
gether, he exclaimed: “I've got it, and it’s jest the thing, too. 
I don’t want no better fun than that. I’ve lost my place to 
Ware, and though I might get another, I’ve a notion to turn 
peddler. I alius thought I should like travelin' and seein' the 
world. I’ll buy up a lot of jimcracks and take a bee line for 
Redstone Hall, and learn jest how the matter stands. I can 
put on a little more of the Down East Yankee, if you think I 
hain’t got enough, and I’ll pull the wool over their eyes. What 
do you say, wee one?" 

“Oh, I wish you would," said Marian, adding in the same 


MARIAN GREY 


71 


breath, 'What will you do, if you find him the husband of 
Isabel T' 

"Do he repeated. "String ’em both up by the neck on one 
string. What do you ’spect Td do ? Honest, though,” he con- 
tinued, as he saw her look of alarm; "if she is his wife, which 
ain’t at all likely, ’tis because he s’posed you’re dead, but he 
knows better now, and I shall tell the neighbors that you’re 
alive and breathin’, and they can do with him what they 
choose — and if they ain’t married, nor ain’t nothin’. I’ll do 
jest what you say.” 

"Come back, and don’t tell Frederic you ever saw or heard 
of me,” said Marian. "I shall not live a great while, and even 
if I do, I’d rather not trouble him. It would only make him 
hate me worse, and that I couldn’t bear. He knows now 
where I am, and if he ever wants me, he will come. Don’t 
tell him, nor anyone, a word of me, Ben, but do go, for I long 
to hear from home.” 

To Mrs. Burt this project seemed a wild and foolish one, 
but she rarely opposed her son, and when she saw that he was 
determined, she said nothing, but helped him all she could. 

"You’ll be w^antin’ to send some jimcrack to that blind gal, 
I guess,” he said to Marian one day, and she replied : "I wish 
I could, but I haven’t anything, and besides you mustn’t tell 
her of me.” 

"Don’t you worry,” answered Ben. "I’ve passed my word, 
and I never broke it yet. I can manage to give her somethin’ 
and make it seem natural. What do you. say to makin’ her a 
bracelet out o’ them curls of yourn that we shaved off when 
you were sick?” 

"That red hair ! Frederic would know it at once,” and 
Marian shook her head ruefully, but Ben persisted. " ’Twould 
look real pretty, just like gingerbread when ’twas braided 
tight,” and bringing out the curls, he selected the longest one, 
and hurried off. 

The result proved his words correct, for when a few days 
after he brought home the little bracelet, which was fastened 
with a neat golden clasp, Marian exclaimed with delight at the 
soft beauty of her hair. 

"Darling Alice,” she cried, kissing the tiny ornaments, "I 
wish she could know that my lips have touched it — ^that it once 
grew on my head — but it wouldn’t be best. She couldn’t keep 
the secret, and you mustn’t tell.” 

"Don’t worry, I say,” returned Ben. "I’ve got an idee in 
my brains for a wonder, and I’m jest as ’fraid of tellin’ as you 
be. So cheer up a bit and grow fat, while I’m gone, for I 


72 


MARIAN GREY 


want you to be well when I come back, so as to go to school 
and get to be a great scholar, that Mr. Raymond won't be 
ashamed of when the right time comes,'' and Ben spoke as 
cheerfully as if within his heart there was no grave where 
during the weary nights when he watched with Marian he 
buried his love for her, and vowed to think of her only as a 
cherished sister. 

Marian smiled pleasantly upon him, watching him with in- 
terest as he made up his pack, consisting of laces, ribbons, 
muslins, handkerchiefs, combs, and jewelry, a little real, and 
a good deal brass, ‘‘fer the niggers," he said. Many were the 
charges she gave him concerning the blacks, telling him which 
ones to notice particularly, so as to report to her. 

‘^Jehosiphat !" he exclaimed at last, ‘'how many is there? I 
shall never remember in the world, and taking out a piece of 
pai^r, he wrote upon it, “Dinah, Hetty, Lyd, Victory, Uncle 
Phil, Josh, and the big dog. There !" said he, reading over 
the list, “if I don’t bring you news of every one, my name 
ain’t Ben Burt. I’ll wiggle myself inter their good feelin’s 
and git ’em to talking of you, see if I don’t." 

Marian had the utmost confidence in Ben’s success, and 
though she knew she should be lonely when he was gone, she 
was glad when, at last, the morning came for him to leave 
them. Ben, too, was equally delighted, for the novelty lent a 
double charm to the project; and, bidding his mother and 
Marian good-by, he gathered up his large boxes, and 
whistling a lively tune, by way of keeping up his spirits, 
started for Kentucky. 


CHAPTER IX 


THE YANKEE PEDDLER 

The warm, balmy April day was drawing to a close, and the 
rays of the setting sun shone like burnished gold on the west- 
ern windows of Redstone Hall. It was very pleasant there 
now, for the early spring flowers were all in blossom, the 
grass was growing fresh and green upon the lawn, and the 
creeping vines were clinging lovingly to the timeworn pillars, 
or climbing up the massive walls of dark red stone, which 
gave the place its name. The old negroes had returned from 
their labors, and were lounging about their cabins, while the 
younger portion looked wistfully in at the kitchen door, where 
Dinah and Hetty were busy in preparing supper. On the 
back piazza several dogs were lying, and as their quick ears 
caught the sound of a gate in the distance, the whole pack 
started up and went tearing down the avenue, followed by the 
furious yell of Bruno, who tried in vain to escape from his 
confinement. 

‘^Thar’s somebody cominV’ said Dinah, shading her eyes 
with her hand, and looking toward the highway; ‘^somebody 
with somethin’ on his back. You, Josh, go after them dogs, 
afore they skeer him to death.” 

Stuttering out some unintelligible speech. Josh started in the 
direction the dogs had gone, and soon came up to a tall six- 
footer, who, with short pantaloons, a swallow-tailed coat, a 
stove-pipe hat, sharp-pointed collar, red necktie, and two huge 
boxes on his back, presented a rather ludicrous appearance to 
the boy, and a rather displeasing one to the dogs, who growled 
angrily, as if they would pounce upon him at once. The dub, 
however, with which he had armed himself kept them at bay, 
until Josh succeeded in quieting them down. 

'‘Ra-ally, now,” began our friend Ben, who vainly imagined 
it necessary to put on a little, by way of proving himself a 
genuine Yapkee; ‘Va-ally, now, bootblack, what’s the use of 
keepin’ sich a ’tarnal lot o’ dogs to worry a decent chap like 
me?” 

It was Josh’s misfortune to stammer much more when at all 
excited, and to this interrogatory he began: ‘‘Caw-caw-caw- 
cause ma-ma-mars wa-wa-want — ” 

Marian Grey 73 


74 


MARIAN GREY 


‘‘Great heavens interrupted the Yankee, setting down his 
pack, and eying the stuttering negro as if he had been the last 
curiosity from Barnum's — “great heavens ! will you tell a 
feller what kind of language you speak?'' 

“Spe-pe-pe-pecas sa-sa-sa-same ye-e-e you do," returned the 
negro, failing wholly to enlighten Ben, who rejoined indig- 
nantly: “You go to grass, with your lingo"; and, gathering 
up his boxes, he started for the house, accompanied by Josh 
and the dogs, the first of which made several ineffectual at- 
tempts at conversation. 

“Some natural-born fool," muttered Ben, thinking to him- 
self that he would like to examine the boy's mouth and see 
what ailed it. 

After a few minutes they entered the yard, and came up to 
the other blacks, who were curiously watching the newcomer. 
Seating himself upon the steps and crossing one leg over the 
other, Ben swung his cowhide boot forward and back, and 
greeted them with: “Well, uncles, and aunts, and cousins, 
how do you dew, and how do you find yourselves this after- 
noon ?" 

“Jest tolerable, thanky," answered Uncle Phil, and Ben con- 
tinued. “Wall, health is a great blessin' to them that hain't 
got it. Do you calkerlate that I could stay here tonight ? I've 
got a lot of gewgaws," pointing to his boxes — “handkerchers, 
pins, earrings, and a red and yeller gownd that 'll jest suit 
you, old gal," nodding to Dinah, who muttered gruffly : “The 
Lord, if he calls me old, what 'll he say to Hetty?" 

Ben saw that he had made a mistake, for black women no 
more care to be old than their fairer sisters, and he tried to 
make amends by complimenting the indignant lady until she 
was somewhat mollified, when he asked again if he could stay 
all night. 

“You, Josh," said Uncle Phil, “go and tell yer marster to 
come here." 

“Whew-ew," whistled Ben, “if you're goin' to send that 
stutterin' critter, I may as well be joggin', for no human can 
make out his rigmarole." 

But Ben was mistaken. Josh's dialect was well understood 
by Frederic, who came as requested, and, standing in the door, 
gazed inquisitively at the singular-looking object seated upon 
his steps, and apparently oblivious to everything save the 
sliver he was trying to extract from his thumb with a 
large pin, ejaculating occasionally: “Gaul darn the pesky 
thing." 

Nothing, however, escaped the keen gray eyes which from 


MARIAN GREY 


75 


time to time peered out from beneath the stovepipe hat. Al- 
ready Ben had seen that Redstone Hall was a most beautiful 
spot, and he did not blame Frederic for disliking to give it up. 
He had selected Dinah and Phil from the other blacks, and 
had said that the baby who, with a small white dog, was 
disputing its right to a piece of fat bacon and a chicken bone, 
was Victoria Eugenia, Josh he identified by his name, and he 
was wondering at Marian's taste in caring to hear from him, 
when Frederic appeared, and all else was forgotten in his 
eagerness to inspect the man ^‘who could make a gal bite her 
tongue in two and yank her hair out by the roots, all for the 
love of him." 

Frederic seemed in no hurry to commence a conversation 
and during the minute that he stood there without speaking 
Ben had ample time to take him in from his brown hair and 
graceful mustache down to his polished boots. 

^Got up in considerable kind of good style," was Ben's men- 
tal comment, as he watched the young man carelessly scrap- 
ing his finger nail with a penknife. 

*^Did you wish to see me?" Frederic said at last, and with 
another thrust at the sliver, Ben stuck his pin upon his coat 
sleeve, and, reversing the position of his legs, replied : 
"‘Wall, if you're the boss, I guess I dew; I'm Ben Butter- 
worth from Down East, and I've got belated, and bein' there 
ain't no taverns near I want to stay all night, and pay in 
money or notions. Got a lot on 'em, besides some tiptop mus- 
lin collars for your wife, Mrs. What-Do-You-Call-Her ?" 
and the gray eyes fastened themselves upon the face, which 
for a single instant was white as marble — ^then the hot blood 
came rushing back, and Frederic replied: ‘‘There is no wife 
here, sir, but you can stay all night if you please. Will you 
walk in ?" and he led the way to the sitting room, followed by 
by Ben, who had obtained what to him was the most import- 
ant information of all. 

The night was chilly, and in the grate a cheerful coal fire 
was burning, casting its ruddy light upon the face of a little 
girl, who, seated upon a stool, with her fair hair combed back 
from her sweet face, her waxen hands folded together and her 
strange brown eyes fixed upon the coals as if she were look- 
ing at something far beyond them, seemed to Ben like what he 
had fancied angels in heaven to be. It was not needful for 
Mr. Raymond to say, “Alice, here is a peddlar come to stay 
all night," for Ben knew it was the blind girl, and his heart 
gave a great throb when he saw her sitting there so beautiful, 
so helpless and so lonely, too, for he almost knew that she was 


76 


MARIAN GREY 


thinking of Marian, and he longed to take her in his arms 
and tell her of the lost one. 

Motioning him to a chair, Frederic went out, leaving them 
together. For some minutes there was perfect silence, while 
Ben sat looking at her and trying hard to keep from crying. 
It seemed terrible to him that one so young should be blind, 
and he wanted to tell her so, but he dared not, and he sat so 
still that Alice began to think she was alone, and, resuming 
her former thoughts, whispered softly to herself : ‘"Oh, I wish 
she would come back.'^ 

‘^Blessed baby,'' Ben had almost ejaculated, but he checked 
himself in time and said instead, ''little gal." 

Alice started, and turning her ear, seemed waiting for him 
to speak again, which he did do. 

"Little gal, will you come and sit in my lap ?" 

His voice was gentle and kind, but Alice did not care to be 
thus free with a stranger, so she replied: "I reckon I won't 
do that, but I'll sit nearer to you," and she moved her stool so 
close to him that her head almost rested on his lap. 

"You must 'scuse me," she said, "if I don't act like other 
children do — I’m blind." 

Very tenderly he smoothed her silken hair, and as he did so, 
she felt something drop upon her forehead. It was a tear, and 
wiping it away, she said: 

"Man, be you hungry and tired, or what makes you cry?'* 

"I'm cryin' for you, poor, unfortunate lamb"; and the ten- 
der-hearted Ben sobbed out aloud. 

"Oh, I wouldn’t, I wouldn't,” said the distressed child — "I'm 
used to it. I don’t mind it now." 

The ice was fairly broken, and a bond of sympathy estab- 
lished between the two. 

"He must be a good man,” Alice thought; and when he 
began to question her of her home and friends, she replied to 
him readily. 

"You haven’t no mother, nor sister, nor a’nt, nor nothin', 
but Mr. Raymond and Dinah,” said Ben, after they had talked 
a while. "Ain’t there no white women in the house but you ?" 

"Yes, Mrs. Huntington and Isabel. She’s my governess," 
answered Alice; and, conscious of a pang, Ben continued: 

"Mr. Raymond sent for 'em, I s’pose?" 

"No,” returned Alice. "They came without sending for — 
came to visit, and he hired them to stay. Mrs. Huntington 
keeps house.” 

At this point in the conversation there was a rustling of 
garments in the hall, and a splendid, queenly creature swept 


MARIAN GREY 


77 


into the room, bringing with her such an air of superiority 
that Ben involuntarily hitched nearer to the wall, as if to get 
out of sight. 

‘^Je-ru-sa-lem ! Ain't she a dasher?" was his mental ex- 
clamation; and, in spite of himself, he followed her move- 
ments with an admiring glance. 

Taking a chair, she drew it to the fire, and, without deign- 
ing to notice the stranger, she said, rather reprovingly: 

'Alice, come here." 

The child obeyed, and Ben, determined not to be ignored en- 
tirely, said: 

"Pretty well this evenin', miss?" 

"How, sir?" and the black eyes flashed haughtily upon 
him. 

Nothing abashed, he continued: "As't you if you're pretty 
well, but no matter, I know you to be by your looks. I've got 
a lot of finery that I guess you want," an^ opening his boxes, 
he spread out upon the carpet the collars and undersleeves, 
which had been bought with a view to this very night. Very 
disdainfully Isabel turned away, saying she never traded with 
peddlers. 

"I wonder if you don't," returned Ben, with imperceptible 
pity; "but, seein' it's me, buy somethin', dew," and he held up 
to view Marian's soft hair, which, in the bright firelight, 
looked singularly beautiful. 

Isabel did unbend a little now. There was no sham about 
that, she knew, and taking it in her hand, she tried to clasp 
it on her round, white arm; but it would not come together. 
It was not made for her ! 

"It isn't large enough," said she; "it must have been in- 
tended for some child." 

"Shouldn't wonder if you hit the nail right on the head," 
returned Ben, and taking the bracelet, he continued : "Mebby 
'twas meant for this wee one — who knows?" and he fastened 
it on Alice's slender wrist. "Fits to a T," said he, "and you 
must have it, too. Them clasps is little hearts, do you see?" 

Frederic now entered the room, and holding up her arm, 
Alice said: "Look, is it pretty?" 

"Yes, very," he replied, bending down to examine it, while 
Ben watched him narrowly, wondering how he would feel if 
he knew from whose tresses that braid was made. 

"Harnsome color, ain't it, square?" he said, holding Alice's 
hand a little more to the light, and continuing: "Now there's 
them that don't like red hair, but I swan I've seen some that 
wan't so bad. Now when it curls kinder — waJl, like a gim- 


78 


MARIAN GREY 


let, you know. IVe got a gal to hum I call my sister, and her 
hair's as nigh this color as two peas, or it was afore 'twas 
shaved. She's been awful sick with heart disorder and fever, 
and I tell you, square, if you'd 'a' seen her pitchin' and divin', 
and rollin' from one end of the bed t'other, bitin' her tongue 
and yankin' out her hair by han'fuls, I rather guess you’d felt 
kinder streaked. It made a calf of me, though I didn't feel so 
bad then as when she got weaker and lay so still that we held 
a feather to her lips to see if she breathed." 

‘^Oh, did she die ?" asked Alice, who had been a most atten- 
tive listener. 

‘"No," answered Ben, ‘‘she didn't, and the thankfulest prayer 
I ever prayed was the one I made in the buttery, behind the 
door, when the doctor said she would git well." 

Supper was announced, and putting up his muslins, Ben 
followed his host to the dining room. Alice, too, was at the 
table, the bracelet still upon her wrist, for she liked the feeling 
of it. “And she did so wish it was hers." 

“I shall have to buy it for you, I reckon," said Frederic, and 
he inquired its price. 

“Wall, now," returned Ben, “if 'twas anybody but the little 
gal, I should say five dollars, but bein’ it's her, I’d kinder like 
to give it to her." 

This, however, Frederic would not suffer. Alice could not 
keep it, he said, unless he paid for it, and he put a half eagle 
into the hand of the child, who offered it to Ben. For a 
moment the latter hesitated, then thinking to himself : “Darn 
it all, what's the use? If Marian goes to school, and I mean 
she shall, she’ll need a lot of money, and what I get out o' him 
is clear gain," he pocketed the piece, and the bracelet belonged 
to Alice. 

After supper, Ben sat down by the fire in the dining room, 
hoping they would leave him with Alice, and this they did ere 
long, Isabel going to the piano, and Frederic to the library to 
answer letters, while Mrs. Huntington gave some directions 
for breakfast. These directions were merely nominal, how- 
ever, for Dinah to all intents and purposes was mistress of the 
household, and she now came in to see to the supper dishes, 
which were soon cleared away; and Ben, as he wished, was 
alone with Alice. The bracelet seemed to be a connecting link 
between them, for Alice was not in the least shy of him now, 
and when he asked her again to sit in his lap, she did so 
readily. 

“That Miss Isabel is a dreadful han'some gal," he began; 

should s'pose Mr. Raymond would fall in love with her." 


MARIAN GREY 


79 


No answer from Alice, whose sightless eyes looked steadily 
into the fire. 

"‘Mebby he is in love with her?"' 

No answer yet, and mentally chiding himself for his stupid- 
ity in not striking the right vein, Ben continued: 

wonder he hain’t married afore this. He must be as 
much as twenty-five or six years old, and so handsome, too V* 

‘'He has been married,” and the little face of the speaker 
did not move a muscle. 

“Now you don’t say it!” returned Ben. “A widower, hey? 
How long sense he was married ?” 

“A few months,” and the long eyelashes quivered in the fire- 
light just a little. 

“I want to know — died so soon — poor critter. Tell me about 
her, dew. You didn’t know her long, so I s’pose you couldn’t 
love her a great sight?” 

The brown eyes flashed up into Ben’s face, and the blood 
rushed to Alice’s cheeks, as she replied: “Me not love 
Marian ! Oh, I loved her so much !” 

The right chord was touched at last, and in her own way 
Alice told the sad story — how Marian had left them on her 
bridal night, and though they searched for her everywhere, 
both in the river and through the country, no trace of her 
could be found, and the conviction was forced upon them that 
she was dead. 

“Je-ru-sa-lem ! I never thought of that !” was Ben’s invol- 
untary exclamation ; but it conveyed no meaning to Alice, and 
when he asked if they still believed her dead she answered: 

“I don’t quite believe Frederic does. I don’t, anyway. I 
used to, though, but now it seems just like she would come 
back,” and turning her face more fully toward him, Alice told 
him how she had loved the lost one, and how each day she 
prayed that she might come home to them again. “I don’t 
know as she was pretty,” she said, “but she was so sweet, so 
good, and I’m so lonesome without her,” and down Alice’s 
cheeks the big tears rolled, while Ben’s kept company with 
them and fell on her hands. 

“Man, don’t you cry a heap ?” she asked, shaking the round 
drops off and wondering why a perfect stranger should care 
so much for Marian. 

“I’m so plaguy tender-hearted that I can’t help it,” was 
Ben’s apology, as he blew his nose vigorously upon his blue 
cotton handkerchief. 

For a time longer he talked with her, treasuring up blessed 
words of comfort for the distant Marian, and learning also 


80 


MARIAN GREY 


that Alice was sure Frederic would never marry again until 
certain of Marian's death. He might like Isabel, she admitted, 
but he would not dare make her his wife till he knew for true 
what had become of Marian. 

‘'And he does know it, the scented-up puppy," thought Ben. 
“He jest writ her that last insultin' thing to kill her out and 
out ; but he didn't come it, and till he knows he did, he dassent 
do nothin'." 

Ben then went down to the kitchen where he got into 
friendly conversation with Dinah. 

“That little gal, Alice, has been telling me about Mr. Ray- 
mond’s marriage. Unlucky, wasn't he? Shouldn't wonder 
though, if he had kind of a hankerin' after that black-eyed 
miss. She's han'some as a picter." 

Dinah needed but this to loosen her tongue. She had long 
before made up her mind that “Isabel was no kind o' 'count" ; 
and once the two had come to open hostilities, Isabel accusing 
Dinah of being a “lazy, gossiping nigger," while Dinah, in re- 
turn, had told her “she warn't no better'n she should be, stick- 
in' 'round after Marster Frederic, when nobody knew whether 
Miss Marian was dead, or not." 

This indignity was reported to Frederic, who reproved old 
Dinah sharply; whereupon, she turned toward him, to use her 
favorite expression, “gin him a piece of her mind." 

After this it was generally understood that between Dinah 
and Isabel there existed no very amicable state of feeling, and 
when Ben spoke of the latter, the former exploded at once. 

“ 'Twas a burnin' shame," she said, “and it mortified her 
een-a-most to death to see the trollop a tryin' to set to marster, 
when nobody know'd for sartin if his fust wife was dead." 

“Marster's jest as fast as she," interposed Hetty, who sel- 
dom agreed with Dinah. 

A contemptuous sneer curled Dinah's lip as she said to Ben, 
in a whisper: 

“Don’t b’lieve none o' her trash. Them Higginses alius 
would lie. I hain't never seen Marster Frederic do a single 
thing out o' the way, 'cept to look at her, jest as Phil used to 
look at me when he was sparkin'. I don't think that was very 
'spectable in him, to be sure, but looks don't signify. He das- 
sent marry her till he knows for sartin t'other one is dead. 
He done told Alice so, and she told me"; and then Dinah 
launched out into praises of the lost Marian, exalting her so 
highly that Ben tossed into her lap a pair of earrings which 
she had greatly admired. 

“Take them," said he, “for standin' up for that poor run- 


MARIAN GREY 


81 


away. I like to hear one woman stick to another.*’ 

Dinah cast an exulting glance at Hetty, who, nothing 
daunted, came forward and said: 

''Miss Marian was as likely a gal as thar was in Kentuck, 
and she, for one, should be as glad to see her back as some o’ 
them that made sich a fuss about it.” 

"Playin’ ’possum,” whispered Dinah. "Them Higginses is 
up to that.” 

Ben probably thought so, too, for he paid no attention to 
Hetty, who, highly indignant, started for Isabel, and told her 
"how Dinah and that fetch-ed peddler done spilt her character 
entirely.” 

"Leave the room,” was Isabel’s haughty answer. "I am 
above what a poor negro and an ignorant Yankee can say.” 

"For the dear Lord’s sake,” muttered the discomhted Hetty ; 
"wonder if she ain’t a Yankee her own self. ’Spects how she 
done forgot whar she was raised,” and Hetty returned to the 
kitchen a warmer adherent of Marian than Dinah had ever 
been. 

She, too, was very talkative now, and before nine o’clock 
Ben had learned all that he expected to learn, and much more. 
He had ascertained that no one had the slightest suspicion of 
the reason why Marian went away; that both Frederic and 
Isabel seemed unhappy; that Dinah and Hetty, too, believed 
"thar was somethin’ warin’ on thar minds” ; that Frederic was 
discontented and talked seriously of leaving Redstone Hall in 
the care of an overseer, and moving, in the autumn, to his 
residence on the Hudson; that Hetty hoped he would, and 
Dinah hoped he wouldn’t — " ’case if he did, it would be next to 
impossible to get a stroke o’ work out o’ them lazy Higginses.” 

"I’ve got all I come for, I b’lieve,” was Ben’s mental com^ 
ment, as he left the kitchen and returned to the dining room 
where he found Frederic alone. "I’ll poke his ribs a little,’^ 
he thought, and, helping himself to a chair, he began : 

"Wall, square, I’ve been out seein’ your niggers. Got a fine 
lot on ’em, and I shouldn’t wonder if you was wo’th consider- 
able. Willed to you by your dad, or was it a kind of a dowry 
come by your wife? You’re a widower, they say”; and the 
gray eyes looked out at their corners, as Ben thought, "That 
’ll make him squirm, I guess.” 

Frederic turned very white, but his voice was natural as he 
replied : 

"My father was called the richest man in the county, and I 
was his only child.” 

"Ah, yes, come to you that way,” answered Ben, continuing 


82 


MARIAN GREY 


after a moment: ^There’s a big house up on the Hudson — 
to Yonkers — ^that's been shet up and rented at odd spells for a 
good while, and somebody told me it belonged to a Col. Ray- 
mond, who lived South. Mebby that’s yourn ?” 

‘It is,” returned Frederic, “and I expect now to go there in 
the fall.” 

“I want to know. I shouldn’t s’pose you could be hired to 
leave this place.” 

“I couldn’t be hired to stay. There are too many sad 
memories connected with it,” was Frederic’s answer, and he 
paced the floor hurriedly, while Ben continued : “Mebby you’ll 
be takin’ a new wife there?” 

Frederic’s cheek flushed, as he replied: 

“If I ever marry again, it will not be in years. Would you 
like to go to bed, sir ?” 

Ben took the hint, and replying, “I don’t care if I dew,” 
followed the negro, who came at Frederic’s call, up to his 
room, a pleasant, comfortable chamber, overlooking the river 
and the surrounding country. 

“Golly, this is grand!” said Ben, examining the different 
articles of furniture, as if he had never seen anything like it 
before. 

The negro, who was Lyd’s husband, made no reply; but 
hurrying downstairs to his mother-in-law, he told her : “Thar 
was somethin’ mighty queer about that man, and if they all 
found themselves alive in the mornin’, he should be thankful.” 

The morning dawned at last, and, with her fears abated, 
Dinah washed the silver, made the coffee, broiled the steak, 
and fried the cornmeal batter cakes, which last were at first 
respectfully declined by Ben, who admitted that they “might be 
fust-rate, but he didn’t b’lieve they’d set well on his stomach.” 

Hetty, who was waiting upon the table, quickly divined the 
reason, and whispered to him, “Lord bless you, take some; I 
done sifted the meal 1” 

This argument was conclusive, and helping himself to the 
light, steaming cakes, Ben thought, “I may as well eat ’em, for 
tain’t no wuss, nor as bad, as them Irish gals does to hum, only 
I happened to see it !” 

Breakfast being over, he offered to settle his bill, which he 
found was nothing. 

“Now, ra’ally, square,” he said, as Frederic refused to take 
pay, “I alius hearn that Kentuckians was mighty free-hearted, 
but I didn’t ’spect you to give me my livin’. I’m much oblee^ed 
to you, though, and I shall have more left to eddicate that little 
sister I was tellin’ you ’bout. I mean to give her tiptop lamin’ 


MARIAN GREY 


m 


and raebby sometime she'll come here to teach this wee one/' 
and he laid his hand on Alice's hair. 

The little girl smiled up into his face, and said: “Come 
again and peddle here, won't you?" 

“Wouldn't wonder if I turned up amongst you some day," 
was his answer ; and bidding the family good-by, he went out 
into the yard to Bruno’s kennel, for until this minute he had 
forgotten that the dog was to be remembered. 

“Keep away from dar," called Uncle Phil, while Bruno 
growled savagely and bounded against the bars as if anxious 
to pounce upon the intruder. 

“I've seen enough of him," thought Ben, and shaking hands 
with Uncle Phil, he walked rapidly down the avenue and out 
into the highway. 

Marian, he knew, was anxious to hear of his success, and 
not willing to keep her waiting longer than was necessary, he 
determined to return at once. Accordingly, while the unsus- 
pecting inmates of Redstone Hall were discussing his late visit 
and singular appearance, he was on his way to the depot, 
where he took the first train for Frankfort, and was soon 
sailing down the Kentucky toward home. 


r 



CHAPTER X 


PLANS 

Marian was sitting by the window of her little room, look- 
ing out into the busy street below, and thinking how differ- 
ently New York seemed to her now from what it did that 
dreary day when she wandered down Broadway, and wished 
that she could die. She had counted the days of Ben’s ab- 
sence, and she knew it was almost time for his return. She 
did not expect him today, however, and she paid no attention 
to the heavy footstep upon the stairs, neither did she hear the 
creaking of the door; but, v^hen Mrs. Burt exclaimed, ‘‘Ben- 
jamin Franklin! Where did you come from?” she started, 
and in an instant held both his hands in hers. 

Wistfully, eagerly she looked up into his face, longing, yet 
dreading, to ask the important question. 

“Have you been there?” she managed to say, at last; and 
Ben replied: “Yes, I’ve been to Redstun Hall, and seen the 
hull tribe on ’em. That Josh is a case. Couldn’t understand 
him no more than if he spoke a furrin tongue.” 

“But Frederic — did you see him, and is he — oh, Ben, do 
tell me — ^what you know I want to hear ?” and Marian 
trembled with excitement. 

“Wall, I will,” answered Ben, dropping into a chair, and 
coming to the point at once. “Frederic ain’t married to Isabel, 
nor ain’t a-goin’ to be, either.” 

“What made him write me that lie?” was Marian’s next 
question, asked so mournfully that Ben replied : 

“A body ’d ’spose you was sorry it warn’t the truth he 
writ’.” 

“I am so glad it is not true,” returned Marian ; “but it hurts 
me so to lose confidence in one I love. How does Frederic 
look?” 

“White as a sheet and poor as a crow,” said Ben. “It's a 
wearin’ on him, depend on’t. But she — I tell you she’s a 
dasher, with the blackest eyes and hair I ever seen.” 

“Who?” fairly screamed Marian. “Who? Not Isabel? 
Oh, Ben, is Isabel there ?” And Marian grew as white as Ben 
had described Frederic to be. 

“Yes, she is,” returned Ben. “She’s pretendin’ to teach that 
Marian Grey 85 


86 


MARIAN GREY 


blind gal, but Frederic ain't makin' love to her — no such thing. 
So don’t go to faintin’ away, and I’ll begin at the beginnin’ 
and tell you the hull story.” 

Thus reassured, Marian composed herself and listened, 
while Ben narrated every particular of his recent visit to Red- 
stone Hall. 

Whatever Ben undertook he was sure to accomplish in the 
shortest possible time, and before starting upon another peddling 
excursion, the name of ^‘Marian Grey” was enrolled among 
the list of pupils who attended Madam Harcourt’s school. At 
first she was subject to many annoyances, for, as was quite 
natural, her companions inquired concerning her standing, and 
when they learned that her aunt was a sewing woman, and 
that the queer, awkward fellow who came with her the first 
day was her cousin and a peddler, they treated her slightingly, 
and laughed at her plain dress. But Marian did not care. 
One thought — one feeling alone actuated her, to make herself 
something of which Frederic Raymond should not be ashamed 
was her aim, and for this she studied early and late, winning 
golden laurels in the opinion of her teachers, and coming ere 
long to be re:.pected and loved by her companions, 
w’ho little suspected that she was the heiress of untold 
wealth. 

Thus the summer and a part of the autumn passed away, 
and when the semi-annual examination came, Marian Grey 
stood first in all her classes, acquitting herself so creditably, 
and receiving so much praise, that Ben, who chanced to be 
present, was perfectly overjoyed, and evinced his pleasure by 
shedding tears, his usual way of expressing feeling. 

From this time forward Marian’s progress was rapid, until 
even she herself wondered how it were possible for her to 
learn so fast when she had formerly cared so little for books. 
Hope, and a joyful anticipation of what would possibly be 
hers in the future, kept her up and helped her to endure the 
mental labors which might otherwise have overtaxed her 
strength. Gradually, too, the old soreness at her heart wore 
away, and she recovered, in a measure, her former light- 
heartedness, until at last her merry laugh was often heard 
ringing out loud and clear, just as it used to do at home in 
days gone by. Very anxiously Ben watched her, and when 
on his return from his excursions he found her, as he always 
did, improved in looks and spirits, he rubbed his hands to- 
gether and whispered to himself. “She’ll set up for a beauty, 
yet, and no mistake. That hair of her’n is growin’ a splendid 
color.” 


MARIAN GREY 


87 


Toward the last of November, Ben, who found his peddling 
profitable, took a trip through Western New York, and did not 
return until February, when, somewhat to his mother's annoy- 
ance, he brought a sick stranger with him. He had taken the 
cars at Albany, where he met with the stranger, who offered 
him a part of his seat and made himself so generally agree*^ 
able that Ben's susceptible heart warmed toward him at once, 
and when at last, near New York, the man grew rapidly 
worse, Ben's sympathy was aroused, and learning that he had 
no friends in the city, he urged him so strongly to accompany 
him home for the night, at least, that his invitation was ac- 
cepted, and the more readily, perhaps, as the stranger's pocket 
had been picked in Albany, and he had nothing left except his 
ticket to New York. This reason was not very satisfactory to 
Mrs. Burt, who from the first had disliked their visitor’s ap- 
pearance. He was a powerfully built young man, with black, 
bushy hair, and restless, rolling eyes, which seemed ever on 
the alert to discover something not intended for them to see. 
His face wore a hard, dissipated look; and when Mrs. Burt 
saw how soon, after seating himself before the warm fire, he 
fell asleep, she rightly conjectured that a fit of drunkenness 
had been the cause of his illness. Still, he was their guest, 
and she would not treat him uncivilly, so she bade her son 
take him to his room, where he lay in the same deep, stupid 
sleep, breathing so loudly that he could be plainly heard in the 
adjoining room, where Marian and Ben were talking of the 
house at Yonkers which was not finished yet, and would not 
be ready for the family until some time in May. 

Suddenly the loud breathing in the bedroom ceased — the 
stranger was waking up; but Ben and Marian paid no heed, 
and talked on freely as if there were no greedy ears drinking 
in each word they said — no wild-eyed man leaning on his 
elbow and putting together, link by link, the chain of mystery 
until it was as clear to him as noonday. The first sentence 
which he heard distinctly sobered him at once. It was Marian 
who spoke, and the words she said were : ^T wonder if Isabel 
Huntington will come with Frederic to Yonkers." 

'Tsabel !” the stranger gasped. ^'What do they know of 
her ?” And sitting up in bed, he listened until he learned what 
they knew of her, and learned, too, that the young girl whom 
Ben Burt called his cousin was the runaway bride from Red- 
stone Hall. 

Fiercely the black eyes flashed through the darkness, and 
the fists smote angrily together as the stranger hoarsely whis- 
pered : 


88 


MARIAN GREY 


‘The time IVe waited for has come at last, and the proud 
shall be humbled in the very dust 

It was Rudolph McVicar who thus threatened evil to Isabel 
Huntington- He had loved her once, but her scornful refusal 
of him, even after she was his promised wife, had turned his 
love to hate, and he had sworn to avenge the wrong should a 
good chance ever occur. He knew that she was in Kentucky 
— a teacher at Redstone Hall — and for a time he had expected 
to hear of her marriage with the heir, but this intelligence did 
not come, and weary of New Haven, he at last made a trip 
to New Orleans, determining on his way back to stop for a 
time in the neighborhood of Redstone Hall, and if possible 
learn the reason why Isabel had not yet succeeded in securing 
Frederic Raymond. On the boat in which he took passage 
on his return were three of four young people from Franklin 
County, and among them Agnes Gibson and her brother. 
They were a very merry party, and at once attracted the atten- 
tion of Rudolph, w"ho, learning that they were from the vicin- 
ity of Frankfort, hovered around them, hoping that by some 
chance he might hear them speak of Isabel. Nor was he dis- 
appointed; for one afternoon when they were assembled upon 
the upper deck, one of their number who lived in Lexington, 
and who had been absent in California for nearly two years, 
inquired after Frederic Raymond, whom he had formerly met 
at school. 

“Why,” returned the loquacious Agnes, “did no one write 
that news to you?” and oblivious entirely of Rudolph Mc- 
Vicar, who at a little distance was listening attentively, she 
told the story of Frederic's strange marriage and its sad de- 
nouement. Isabel, too, was freely discussed. Miss Agnes say- 
ing that Mr. Raymond would undoubtedly marry her, could he 
know that Marian was dead, but as there was some who en- 
tertained doubts upon that point he would hardly dare to take 
any decisive step until uncertainty was made sure. 

“When Miss Huntington first came to Redstone Hall,” con- 
tinued Agnes, “she took no pains whatever to conceal her 
preference for Mr. Raymond; but latterly a change has come 
over her, and she hardly appears like the same girl. There 
seems to be something on her mind, though what it is I have 
never been able to learn, which is a little strange, considering 
that she tells me everything.” 

Not a word of all this story was lost by McVicar. There 
was no reason now for his leaving the boat at Louisville. He 
knew why Isabel was not a bride, and secretly exulting as he 
thought of her weary restlessness, he kept on his way till he 


MARLON GREY 


89 


reached Albany, where a debauch of a few days was succeeded 
by tlie sickness which had awakened the sympathy of the ten- 
der-hearted Ben, and induced the latter to offer him shelter 
for the night. He was glad of it now — glad that he had 
been drunk and met with Ben, for by that means he had dis- 
covered the hiding place of Frederic Raymond’s wife. He did 
not know of her fortune, but he knew that she was Marian 
Lindsey; that accidentally, as he supposed, she had stumbled 
upon Mrs. Burt and Ben, who were keeping her secret from 
the world, and that was enough for him. That Isabel had 
something to do with her he was sure, and long after the con- 
versation in the next room had ceased, he lay awake thinking 
what use he should make of his knowledge, and still not betray 
those who had befriended him. 

Rudolph Me Vicar was an adept in cunning, and before the 
morning dawned he had formed a plan by which he hoped to 
crush the haughty Isabel. Assuming an air of indifference to 
everything around him, he sauntered out to breakfast and pre- 
tended to eat, while his eyes rested almost constantly on 
Marian. She was very young, he thought, and far prettier 
than Agnes Gibson had represented her to be. She was 
changing in her looks, he said, and two or three years would 
ripen her into a beautiful woman of whom Frederic Raymond 
would be proud. Much he wished he knew why she had left 
Redstone Hall, but as this knowledge was beyond his reach, he 
contented himself with knowing who she was, and after break- 
fast was over, he thanked his new acquaintances for their hos- 
pitality, and went out into the city, going first to a pawn- 
broker’s, where he left his watch, receiving in exchange money 
enough to defray his expenses in the city for several days. 

That night in a private room at the St. Nicholas, he sat 
alone, bending over a letter, which, when finished, bore a very 
fair resemblance to an uneducated woman’s handwriting, and 
which read as follows : 

“M. Raymond : I now take my pen in hand to inform you 
that A young Woman, calling herself Marian lindsey has ben 
staying with me awhile And she said you was her Husband 
what she came of and left you for I dont know and I spose its 
none of my Bizness all I have to do is to tell you that she 
died wun week ago come Sunday with the canker-rash and she 
made me Promise to rite and tell you she was ded and that she 
forgives you all your Sins and hope you wouldn’t wate long 
before you marred agen it would of done your Hart good to 
heard her tauk like a Sante as she did. i should of writ 


90 


MARIAN GREY 


sooner only her sicnes hindered me about gettin reddy for a 
journey ime goin to take my only Brother lives in Scotland 
and ime goin out to live with him i was most reddy when 
Marian took sick if she had lived she was comin back to you I 

beleave and now that shes ded ime goin rite of in the 

which sales tomorrough nite else ide ask you to come down 
and see where she died and all about it. i made her as com- 
fitable as I could and hoping you wouldn't take it to hard for 
Deth is the lot of all i am your most Humble Servant 

‘'Sarah Green/' 

“There,” soliloquized Rudolph, reading over the letter. 
“That covers the whole ground, and still gives him no clew in 

case he should come to New York. The does sail the 

very day I have named, and though ‘Sarah Green’ may not be 
among her passengers, it answers my purpose quite as well. 
I believe Tve steered clear of all doubtful points which might 
lead him to suspect a forgery. He knows Marian would not 
attempt to deceive him thus, and he will, undoubtedly, think 
old Mrs. Green some good, pious soul, who dosed the patient 
with saffron tea, and then saw her decently interred! He’ll 
have a nice time hunting up her grave if he should undertake 
that. But he won’t — She’ll be pleased enough to know that he 
is free, for by all accounts he didn’t love her much, and in 
less than six weeks he’ll be engaged to Isabel. But I’ll be on 
their track. I’ll watch them narrowly, and when the day is 
set, and the guests are there, one will go unbidden to the mar- 
riage feast, and the story that uninvited guest can tell will 
humble the proud beauty to the dust. He will tell her that this 
letter was a forgery, and Sarah Green a myth; that Marian 
Lindsey lives, and Frederic Raymond, if he takes another 
wife, can be indicted for bigamy; and when he sees her eyes 
flash fire, and her cheek grow pale with rage and disappoint- 
ment, Rudolph Me Vicar will be avenged.” 

This, then, was the plan which Rudolph had formed, and, 
without wavering for an instant in his purpose, he sealed the 
letter, and, directing it to Frederic, sent it on its way, going 
himself the next morning to New Haven, where he had some 
money deposited in the bank. This he withdrew, and after a 
few days started for Lexington, where he intended to remain, 
and watch the proceedings at Redstone Hall, until the denoue- 
ment of his plot. 


CHAPTER XI 


THE EFFECT 

Not quite one year has passed away since the warm spring 
night when Ben Burt first strolled leisurely up the long avenue 
leading to Redstone Hall. It was April then, and the early 
flowers were in bloom, but now the chill March winds are 
blowing, and the brown stocks of the tall rosetree brush 
against the window, from which a single light streams out into 
the darkness. It is the window of the little library where we 
have seen Frederic before, and where we meet him once again. 
He has changed somewhat since we saw him last, and there is 
upon his face a sad, thoughtful expression, as if far down in 
his heart there were a haunting memory which would follow 
him through all time, and embitter every hour. 

One year and more of the dreary seven was gone, but the 
future looked almost hopeless to Isabel, and she was some- 
times tempted to go away and leave the dangerous game at 
vhich she was so hazardously playing. Still, when she 
seriously contemplated such a proceeding, she shrank from it 
— for, even though she were never Frederic’s wife, she would 
rather remain where she was, and see that no other came to 
dispute the little claim she had. All her old assurance was 
gone, and in her dread lest Frederic should say the words she 
must not hear, she assumed toward him a half -distant, half- 
bashful manner, far more attractive than a bolder course of 
conduct would have been, and Frederic, while watching her in 
this new phase of character, struggled manfully against the 
feeling which sometimes prompted him to break his promise 
to the blind girl. She was faulty, he knew — far more so 
than he had once imagined — but she was brilliant, beautiful, 
accomplished, and he thought that he loved her. 

But not of her was he thinking that chill March night when 
he sat alone in the library watching the flickering of the lamp, 
and listening to the evening wind, as it shook the bushes be- 
neath his window. It was Marian’s seventeenth birthday, and 
he was thinking of her, wondering what she would have been 
had she lived to see this day. She was surely dead, he thought, or 
some tidings of her would have come to him ere this, and 
when he remembered how gentle, how pure and self-denying 
Marian Grey 91 


92 


MARIAN GREY 


her short life had been, he said involuntarily: “Poor Marian 
— she deserved a better fate, and should she come back to me 
again I would prove to her that I am not all unworthy of her 
love/’ 

There was a shuffling tread in the hall, and Josh appeared, 
bringing several letters. One bore the Louisville postmark — 
one was from New Orleans — one from Lexington, and one 
from Sarah Green ! 

“Who writes to me from New York?” was Frederic’s 
mental query, and tearing open the wrapper he drew nearer 
to him the lamp and read, while there crept over him a name- 
less terror as if even while he was thinking of the lost, the 
grave had opened at his feet and shown him where she lay; 
not in the moaning river — not in the deep, dark woods, nor 
on the western prairies, as he had sometimes feared, but far 
away in the great city, where there was no one to pity — no 
eye to weep for her save that of the rude woman who had 
written him the letter. 

There Marian had suffered and died for him. His Marian 
— ^his young girl-wife ! He could call her so now, and he did, 
saying it softly, reverently, as we speak always of the de- 
parted, while the tears he was not ashamed to weep dropped 
upon the soiled sheet. He did not think of doubting it. There 
was no reason why he should, and his heart went out after the 
dead as it had never gone after the living. It seemed to him 
so terrible that she should die among strangers, so far from 
home; and he wondered much how she ever chanced to get 
there. She had remembered him to the last, “forgiving all his 
sins,” the woman said, and knowing well how much those few 
words meant, he said again, “Poor Marian,” just as the door 
opened and Alice came slowly in. 

There was a grand party that night at the house of Lawyer 
Gibson, and at Isabel’s request Alice had come to ask how 
long before the carriage would be ready. Dinah had told her 
that Frederic was in the library, but he sat so still she thought 
he was not there, and she said inquiringly: “Frederic?” 

“Yes, darling,” was his answer, in a tone which startled the 
sensitive child, for she detected in it a sound of tears, and 
hurrying to his side she passed her hand over his face to as- 
sure herself that she heard aright. 

“Has something dreadful happened?” she asked, as she felt 
the moisture on his eyelids. 

Taking her on his lap, and laying his burning cheek against 
her cool forehead, Frederic said to her very tenderly and low: 

“Alice, poor Marian is dead ! Here is the letter which came 


MARIAN GREY 


93 


to tell uSy” and he placed it in her hand. There was a sudden 
upward flashing of the brown eyes, and then their soft light 
was quenched in tears, as, burying her face in the young 
man's bosom, the blind girl sobbed: ''Oh, no, no, Fr^eric, 
no.” 

For several minutes she wept passionately, while her little 
frame shook with strong emotion. Then, lifting up her head 
and reaching toward the spot where she knew the letter lay, 
she said : 

"Read it to me, Frederic,” and he did read, pausing occa- 
sionally as he was interrupted by her low moaning cry. 

"Is that all?” she asked, when he had finished. "Didn't 
you leave out a word ?” 

"Not one,” was his reply, and with quivering lips the heart- 
broken child continued, "Marian sent no message for poor 
blind Alice to remember — she never thought of me who loved 
her so much. Why didn’t she, Frederic?” and the sight- 
less eyes looked beseechingly at him as if he could explain the 
mystery. 

Poor child! Rudolph McVicar did not know how strong 
was the affection between those two young girls, or he would 
surely have sent a message to one who seemed almost a part 
of Marian herself, and it was this very omission which finally 
led the close-reasoning child to doubt the truth of the letter. 
But she did not doubt it now. Marian was really dead to her, 
and for a long time she sat with Frederic, saying nothing, but 
by her silence manifesting to him how great was her grief at 
this certain bereavement. 

At last, remembering her errand, she told him why she had 
come, and asked what she should say to Isabel 

"Tell her I shall not go,” he said, "but she need not remain 
at home for that. The carriage can be ready at any time, and, 
Alice, will you tell her the rest? You’ll do it better than I.” 

Alice would rather that someone else should carry to Isabel 
tidings which she felt intuitively would be received with more 
pleasure than pain, but if Frederic requested it of her she 
would do it, and she started to return. To her the night and 
the day were the same, and ordinarily it mattered not whether 
there were lamps in the hall or not, but now, as she passed 
from the library into the adjoining room, there came over her 
a feeling of such utter loneliness and desolation that she 
turned back and said to Frederic : 

"Will you go with me up the stairs, for now that Marian is 
dead, the night is darker than it ever was before.” 

He appreciated her feelings, and taking her by the hand, led 


94 


MARIAN GREY 


her to the door of Isabel’s room. Very impatiently Isabel had 
waited for her, wishing to know what hour Frederic intended 
starting, and if there would be time for Luce, her waiting 
maid, to curl her long, black hair. Accidentally she had over- 
heard a gentleman say that if she wore curls she would be the 
most beautiful woman in Kentucky, and as he was to be pres- 
ent at the party she determined to prove his assertion. 

hope that young one stays well,” she said angrily, as the 
moments went by, and at last, as Alice did not come, she bade 
Luce put the iron in the fire and commence her operations. 

The negress accordingly obeyed the orders, and six long 
curls were streaming down the lady’s back, while a seventh 
was wound around the hissing iron in close proximity to her 
ear, when Alice came in, and hurrying up to her side, began : 

‘^Oh, Miss Huntington, poor, dear Marian wasn’t dead all the 
time they thought she was. She was in New York, with 
Mrs. ” 

She did not finish the sentence ; for, feeling certain that her 
treachery was about to be disclosed, the guilty Isabel jumped 
so suddenly as to bring the hot iron directly across her ear and 
a portion of her forehead. Maddened with the pain, and a 
dread of impending disgrace, she struck the innocent girl a 
blow which sent her reeling across the floor. 

‘‘Oh, Lordy !” exclaimed Luce, untwisting the hair so 
rapidly that a portion of it was torn from the head; “Oh, 
Lordy! Miss Isabel, Alice never tached you”; and, throw- 
ing the iron upon the hearth, she hurried to the prostrate 
child, who had thrown herself upon the lounge and was sob- 
bing so loud and hysterically that Isabel herself was alarmed, 
and while bathing her blistered ear, tried to stammer out some 
apology for what she had done. 

“I supposed you carelessly ran against me,” she said; “and 
it hurt me so I didn’t know what I was doing. Pray, don’t cry 
that way. You’ll raise the house”; and she took hold of 
Alice’s shoulder. 

“I wish she would,” muttered Luce ; and, stooping down, she 
whispered: “Screech louder, so as to fotch Marster Frederic, 
and tell him jest how she done sarved you !” 

But nothing could be further from Alice’s mind than crying 
for effect. It was not so much the indignity she had suffered, 
nor yet the pain of the blow which made her weep so bitterly. 
It was rather the utter sense of desolation, the feeling that her 
last hope had drifted away with the certainty of Marian’s 
death, and for a time she wept on passionately; while Isabel, 
with a hurricane in her bosom, walked the floor, wondering if 


MARIAN GREY 


95 


her perfidy would ever be discovered, and feeling that she 
cared but little now whether it were or not. Suspense was 
terrible, and when the violence of Alice's sobs had subsided, 
she said to her: 

‘Where is Marian, and when is she coming home?" 

“Oh, never, never 1" answered the child. “She can't come 
back, for she's dead now, Marian is"; and Alice covered her 
face again with her hands. 

“Dead!" exclaimed Isabel, in a far different voice from that 
in which she had spoken before. “What do you mean?" 
and passing her arm very caressingly around the little figure 
lying on the lounge, she continued : “I am sorry I struck you, 
Alice. I didn't know what I was doing, and you must forgive 
me, will you, darling? There, dry your eyes, and tell me all 
about poor Marian. When did she die, and where?" 

As well as she could for her tears, Alice told what she 
knew, and satisfied that she was in no way implicated, Isabel 
became still more amiable, even speaking pleasantly to Luce 
and telling her she might do as she pleased the remainder of 
the evening. 

“Of course I shouldn’t think of attending the party now, 
even if I were not so dreadfully burned. Poor Frederic! 
How badly he must feel 1" 

“He does," said Alice, “and he cried, too." 

Isabel curled her proud lip contemptuously, and dipping hei 
handkerchief again in the water, she applied it to her blisterea 
ear, thinking to herself that he would probably be easily con- 
soled. It would be proper, too, for her to commence the 
consoling process at once, by expressing her sympathy; and 
leaving Alice alone she went to the library where Frederic 
was still sitting, so absorbed in his own sad reflections that he 
did not observe her approach until she said: “Alice tells me 
you have heard from Marian," then he started suddenly, and 
turning toward her, answered: “Yes, you can read what is 
written here if you like," and he passed her McVicar’s letter. 

It did seem to Isabel that there was something familiar 
about the writing, particularly in the formation of the capitals, 
but she suspected no fraud and accepted the whole as coming 
from Sarah Green. 

“This is some new acquaintance Marian picked up," she 
thought. “The woman speaks of having known her but a 
short time. Probably she left Mrs. Daniel Burt and stumbled 
upon Sarah Green,” and with an exultant smile upon her beau- 
tiful face, she put the letter down, and laying her hand very 
lightly on Frederic's shoulder, said: “I am sorry for you. 


96 


MARIAN GREY 


Frederic, though it is better, of course, to know just what did 
become of the poor girl/’ 

Frederic could not tell why it was that Isabel’s words of 
sympathy grated harshly on his ear. He only knew that they 
did, and he was glad when she left him alone, telling him she 
should not, of course, attend the party, and saying in reply 
to his questions as to what ailed her ear, that Luce, who was 
curling her hair, carelessly burned it. 

^‘By the way,” she continued, ‘"when I felt the hot iron, I 
jumped, and throwing out my hand, accidentally hit Alice on 
her head and, if you’ll believe me, the sensitive child thinks I 
intended it, and has almost cried herself sick.” 

This falsehood she deemed necessary, in case the truth of 
the matter should ever reach Frederic through another chan- 
nel, and feeling confident that she was safe in every respect, 
and that the prize she so much coveted was nearly won. she 
left him and sought her mother’s chamber. 

To Frederic reality was more endurable than suspense, for 
he could look the future in the face and think what he would 
do. He was free to marry Isabel, he believed; but, as was 
quite natural, he cared less about it now than when there 
was an obstacle in his way. There was no danger of losing 
her, he was sure, and he could wait as long as he pleased! 
Once he thought of going to New York to make some in- 
quiries, and, if possible, find Marian’s grave, but when he re- 
flected that Sarah Green was on the ocean, even before her 
letter reached Kentucky, he decided to defer the matter until 
their removal to Yonkers, which was to take place about the 
middle of May. Isabel, too, had her own views upon the sub- 
ject. There no longer existed a reason why Frederic should 
not address her, and in her estimation nothing could be more 
proper than to christen the new home with a bride. So she 
bent all her energies to the task, smiling her sweetest smile, 
saying her softest words, and playing the amiable lady to per- 
fection. But it availed her nothing, and she determined at last 
upon a bolder movement. 

Finding Frederic alone in the parlor one day, she said: 

^T suppose it will not affect you materially if mother and I 
leave when you remove to Yonkers. Agnes Gibson, you know, 
is soon to be married, and she has invited me to go with her 
to Florida, where, she says, I can procure a good situation as 
music teacher, and mother wishes to go back to New Haven.” 

The announcement, and the coolness with which it was 
made, startled Frederic, and he replied, rather anxiously: 

‘T have never contemplated a separation, I shall need your 


MARIAN GREY 


97 


mother there more than I do here, for I shall not have Dinah.” 

'‘Perhaps you can persuade her to stay, but I think it best 
for me to go,” returned Isabel, delighted with her success. 

Frederic Raymond did not wish Isabel to leave him, and 
after a moment, he said: 

"Why must you go, Isabel? Do you wish for a larger 
salary? Are you tired of us — of me?” And the last words 
were spoken hesitatingly, as if he doubted the propriety of his 
saying them. 

"Oh, Frederic!” and in the soft black eyes raised for an 
instant to his face, and then modestly withdrawn, there was 
certainly a tear ! "Oh, Frederic 1” was all she said, and Fred- 
eric felt constrained to answer: "What is it, Isabel? Why 
do you wish to go?” 

"I don't — I don’t,” she answered passionately; "but respect 
for myself demands it. People are already talking about my 
living here with you; and now poor Marian is dead and you 
are a widower, it will be tenfold worse. I wish they would 
let us alone, for I have been so happy here and am so much at- 
tached to Alice. It will almost break my heart to leave 
her I” 

Isabel Huntington was wondrously beautiful then, and 
Frederic Raymond was sorely tempted to bid her stay, not as 
Alice’s governess, nor yet as the daughter of his housekeeper, 
but as his wife and mistress of his house. Several times he 
tried to speak, and at last, crossing over to where she sat, he 
began: "Isabel, I have never heard that people were talking 
of you; there is no reason why they should, but if they are 
I can devise a method of stopping it, and still keeping you 

with us. I have never spoken to you of ” love, he was 

going to say, and the graceful head was already bent to catch 
the sound, when a little voice chimed in, "Please, Frederic, I 
am here,” and looking up they saw before them Alice. 

She had entered unobserved and was standing just within 
the door, where she heard what Frederic said. Intuitively she 
felt what would follow next, and scarcely knowing what she 
did, she had apprised them of her presence. 

"The brat 1” was Isabel’s mental comment, while Frederic 
was sensible of a feeling of relief, as if he had suddenly 
awakened from a spell, or been saved from some great peril. 
For several moments Isabel sat, hoping Alice would leave the 
room, but she did not, and in no very amiable mood the lady 
herself constrained to go, by a call from her mother, who 
wished to see her on some trivial matter. 

When she was gone, Alice groped her way to the and 


98 


MARIAN GREY 


climging upon it said to Frederic : ‘Won't you read me that 
letter again which Mrs. Green wrote to you?" 

He complied with her request, and when he had finished 
the child continued: "If Marian had really died, wouldn't she 
have sent some message to me, and wouldn't that woman have 
told us how she happened to be way off there, and all about 
it?" 


"If Marian really died!" repeated Frederic. "Do you doubt 
it?" 

"Yes," returned the child, "Marian loved me most as well as 
she did you, and she surely would have talked of me and sent 
me some word; then, too, is there much difference between 
scarlet fever and canker-rash? Don't some folks call it by 
both names?" 

"I believe they do," said Frederic, wondering to what all 
this was tending. 

"Marian had the scarlet fever, and I, too, just after I came 
here," was Alice’s next remark. "You were at college, but I 
remember it, and so does Dinah, for I asked her a little while 
ago. Can folks have it twice?" and the little blind eyes 
looked up at Frederic, as if sure that this last argument at 
least were proof conclusive of Marian's existence. 

"Sometimes, but not often," answered Frederic, the shadow 
of doubt creeping into his own mind. 

"And if they do," persisted Alice, who had been consulting 
with Dinah, "if they do, they seldom have it hard enough to 
die, so Dinah says; and I don’t believe that was a good, true 
letter. Somebody wrote it to be wicked. Marian is alive, I 
almost know.” 

"Must you see her dead body, to be convinced?" asked Fred- 
eric a little impatiently; and Alice rejoined: 

"No, no; but somehow it don’t seem right for you — ^to — 
oh, Frederic!" and, bursting into tears, she came at once to 
the root of the whole matter. 

She had thought a great deal about the letter, wondering 
why Marian had failed to speak of her, and at last rejecting it 
as an impossibility. Suddenly, too, she remembered that once, 
when she and Marian were sick, she heard sortie of the neigh- 
bors speak of their disease as scarlet fever, while others called 
it the canker-rash ; and all united in saying they could have it 
but once. This had led to inquiries of Dinah, and had finally 
resulted in her conviction that Marian might possibly be 
living. Full of this new idea, she had hastened to Frederic, 
and accidentally overheard what he was saying to Isabel. She 
compr^ended it, too, and knew that but for her unexpected 


MARIAN GREY 


99 


presence, he would, perhaps, have asked the lady to be his 
wife, and she felt again as if Marian were there urging her to 
stand once more between Frederic and temptation. All this 
she told him, and the proud, haughty man, who would have 
spurned a like interference from any other source, listened 
patiently to the pleadings of the childish voice, which said to 
him so earnestly: 

^^Don^t let Isabel be your wife V* 

‘What objection have you to her?^' he asked; and when she 
replied, “She isn’t good,” he questioned her further as to the 
cause of her dislike; “was there really a reason, or w^as it 
mere prejudice ?” 

“I try to like her,” said Alice, “and sometimes I do real 
well, but she don’t act alone with me like she does when you 
are around. She’ll be just as cross as fury, and if you come 
in, she’ll smooth my hair and call me ‘little pet.’ ” 

“Does she ever strike you?” asked Frederic, feeling a desire 
to hear Alice’s version of that story. 

Instantly the tears came into Alice’s eyes, and she replied: 
“Only once — and she said she did not mean that — ^but, Fred- 
eric, she did,” and in her own way Alice told the story, which 
sounded to Mr. Raymond more like the truth than the one he 
had heard from Isabel. Gradually the conviction was forcing 
itself upon him that Isabel was not exactly what she seemed. 
Still, he could not suddenly shake off the chain which bound 
him, and when Alice said to him in her odd, straightforward 
way: “Don’t finish what you were saying to Isabel until 
you’ve been to New York and found if the letter is true.” He 
answered, “Fie, Alice, you are unreasonable to ask such a 
thing of me. Marian is dead. I have no doubt of it, and 1 
am free from the promise made to you more than a year 
since.” 

“Maybe she isn’t,” was Alice’s reply, “and if she is, we shall 
both feel better if you go and see. Go, Frederic, do. It won’t 
take long, and if you find she is really dead, I’ll never speak 
another naughty word of Isabel, but try to love her just as I 
want to love your wife. Will you go, Frederic? I heard you 
say you ought to see the house before we moved, and Yonkers 
is close to New York, isn’t it?” 

This last argument was more convincing than any which 
Alice had offered, for Frederic had left the entire manage- 
ment of repairs to one whom he knew understood such mat- 
ters better than himself, consequently he had not been there at 
all, and he had several times spoken of going up to see that 
all was right. Particularly would he wish to do this if he took 


100 


MARIAN GREY 


hither a bride in May, and to Alice's suggestion he replied: 

might, perhaps, do that for the sake of gratifying you." 

‘‘Oh, if you only would!" answered Alice. “You’ll find her 
somewhere — I know you will — and then you’ll be glad you 
went." 

Frederic was not quite so sure of that, but it was safe to go, 
and while Isabel had been communicating to her mother what 
he had been saying to her, and asking if it were not almost 
a proposal, he was deciding to start for New York immedi- 
ately. Alice’s reasons for doubting the authenticity of the 
letter seemed more and more plausible the longer he thought 
of them, and at supper that night he astonished both Mrs. 
Huntington and her daughter by saying that he was going 
North in a few days, and wished the former to see that his 
wardrobe was in proper condition for traveling. Isabel’s 
face grew dark as night, and the wrathful expression of her 
eyes was noticeable even to him. “There is a good deal of 
temper there," was his mental comment, while Isabel feigned 
some trivial excuse and left the room to hide the anger she 
knew was visible upon her face. He had commenced pro- 
posing to her, she was sure, and he should not leave Redstone 
Hall until he explained himself more fully. Still, it would not 
be proper for her to broach the subject — her mother must do 
do that. It was a parent’s duty to see that her daughter’s 
feelings were not trifled with, and by dint of cajolery, en- 
treaties and threats, she induced the old lady to have a talk 
with Frederic, and ask him what his intentions were. 

Mrs. Huntington was not very lucid in her remarks, and 
without exactly knowing what she meant, Frederic replied at 
random that he was in earnest in all he had said to Isabel 
about her remaining there, that he did not wish her to go 
away, for she seemed one of the family, and that he would 
speak with her further upon the subject when he came back. 
This was not very definite, but Mrs. Huntington brushed it up 
a little ere repeating it to Isabel, who really accepted it as an 
intimation that after his return he intended asking her di- 
rectly to be his wife. Accordingly she told Agnes Gibson 
confidentially what her expectations were, and Agnes told it 
confidentially to several others, who had each a confidential 
friend, and so in course of a few days it was generally 
understood that Redstone Hall was to have another mistress. 
Agnes in particular was very busy disseminating news, hoping 
by this means to turn the public gossip from herself and the 
white-haired man, or rather the plantation in Florida, which 
she was soon to marry. In spite of her protestations to the 


MARIAN GREY 


101 


contrary, people would say that money and not love actuated 
her choice, and she was glad of anything which would give 
her a little rest. So she repeated Isabel’s story again and 
again, charging each and every one never to mention it, and 
consulting between times with her bosom friend as to what 
arrangements were made, and suggesting that they be married 
on the same day and so make the same tour. 

The story finally reached the hotel where Rudolph McVicar 
was a boarder. Exultingly his wild eyes flashed, and when 
he heard as he did that the wedding was fixed for the 
twentieth of May, which he knew was Isabel’s birthday, he 
counted the hours which must elapse ere the moment of his 
triumph came. And while he waited thus, and Rumor, with 
her lying tongue, told each day some fresh falsehood of 
marriage in high life,” Frederic Raymond went on his way, 
and with each milestone passed drew nearer and nearer to the 
lost one — the Marian who would stand between him and Isabel. 


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CHAPTER XII 


THE HOUSE ON THE RIVER 

“Marian,” said Ben, one pleasant April morning, “Fred- 
eric’s house is finished in tiptop style, and if you say so, we’ll 
go out and take a look. It will do you good to see the old 
place once more and know just how things are fixed.” 

“Oh, I’d like it so much,” returned Marian, “but what if I 
should stumble upon Frederic?” 

“No danger,” answered Ben; “the man who has charge of 
everything told me he wasn’t cornin’ till May, and the old 
woman who is tendin’ to things knows I have seen Mr. Ray- 
mond, for I told her so, and she won’t think nothin’; so clap 
on your things in a jiff, for we’ve barely time to reach the 
cars.” 

Marian did not hesitate long ere deciding to go, and in a 
few moments they were in the street. As they were passing 

the Hotel, Ben suddenly left her and, running up the 

steps, spoke to one of the servants with whom he was ac- 
quainted. Returning ere long he said, by way of an apology : 
“I was in there last night to see Jim, and he told me there 
was a man took sick there with a ravin’ fever, pretty much 
like what you had when you bit your tongue ’most in two.” 

Marian shuddered involuntarily, and without knowing why, 
felt a deep interest in the stranger, thinking how terrible it 
was to be sick and alone in a crowded, noisy hotel. 

“Is he better?” she asked, and Ben replied: “No, ten times 
wuss — She’ll die, most likely. But hurry up — here’s the omni- 
bus we want,” and in the excitement of securing a seat, they 
both forgot the sick man. 

The trip to Yonkers was a pleasant one, for to Marian it 
seemed like going home, and when, after reaching the station, 
they entered the lumbering stage and wound slowly up the 
long, steep hill, she recognized many familiar waymarks, and 
drawing her veil over her face, wept silently as she remem- 
bered all she had passed through since the night when Col. 
Raymond first took her up that same long hill, and told her by 
the way of his boy, Frederic, who would be delighted with a 
sister. The fond old man was dead now, and she, the little 
girl he had loved so much, was a sad, lonely woman, going 
Marian Grey 103 


104 


MARIAN GREY 


back to visit the spot which had been so handsomely fitted up 
without a thought of her. 

The house itself was greatly changed, but the view it com- 
manded of the river and the scenery beyond was the same, and 
leaning against a pillar, Marian tried to fancy that she was a 
child again and listening for the bold footsteps of the hand- 
some, teasing boy, who had been at once her terror and her 
pride. But all in vain she listened ; the well-remembered foot- 
fall did not come; the handsome boy was not there, and even 
had he been, she would scarcely have recognized him in the 
haughty, elegant young man, her husband. Yes, he was her 
husband, and she repeated the name to herself, and when at 
last Ben touched her on her shoulder, saying : ‘T Ve told Miss 
Russell my sister was here, and she says you can go over the 
house,’^ she started as if waking from a dream. 

‘Xet us go through the garden first,” she said, as she led 
the way to the maple tree where summers before she had built 
her little playhouse, and where on the bark, just as high up as 
his head then came, the name of Frederic was cut. 

Far below it, and at a point which her red curls had reached, 
there was another name — her own — and Frederic’s jackknife 
had made that, too, while she stood by and said to him: 'T 
wish I was Marian Raymond, instead of Marian Lindsey.” 

How distinctly she remembered his characteristic reply: 

‘Tf you should happen to be my wife, you would be Marian 
Raymond; but, pshaw, I shall marry a great deal prettier 
woman than you will ever be, and you may live with us if you 
want to, and take care of the children. I mean to have 
a lot !” 

She had not thought of this speech in years, but it came 
back to her vividly now, as did many other things which had 
occurred there long ago. Within the house everything was 
changed, but they had no trouble in identifying the different 
rooms, and she lingered long in the one she felt sure was in- 
tended for Frederic himself, sitting in the chair where she 
knew he would often sit, and wondering if, while sitting there, 
he would ever think of her. Perhaps he might be afraid of 
meeting her accidentally in New York, and so he would sel- 
dom come there; or, if he did, it would be after dark, or 
when she was not in the street, and thus she should possibly 
never see him, as she hoped to do. The thought was a sad 
one, and never before had the gulf between herself and Fred- 
eric seemed so utterly impassable as on that April morning 
when, in his room and his armchair, the girl-wife sat and 
questioned the dark future of what it had in store for her. 


MARIAN GREY 


105 


Once she was half tempted to leave some memento — some- 
thing which would tell him she had been there. But she 
spurned the idea as soon as formed. She would not intrude 
herself upon him a second time, and rising at last, she ar- 
ranged the furniture more to her taste, changed the position 
of a picture, moved the mirror into a perfect angle, set Fred- 
eric’s chair before the window looking out upon the river and 
then, standing in the door, fancied that she saw him, with 
his handsome face turned to the light, and his rich brown 
hair shading his white brow. At his feet, and not very far 
away, was a little stool, and if she could only sit there once, 
resting her head upon his knee and hear him speaking to her 
kindly, affectionately, she felt that she would gladly die, and 
leave to another the caresses she could never hope to receive. 

Isabel’s chamber was visited next, and Marian’s would have 
been less than a woman’s nature could she have looked with- 
out a pang upon the costly furniture and rare ornaments 
which had been gathered here. In the disposal of the fur- 
niture there was a lack of taste — a decidedly Mrs. Russell air ; 
but Marian had no wish to interfere. There was something 
sickening in the very atmosphere of her rival’s apartment, and 
with a long, deep sigh, she turned away. Opening the door of 
an adjoining chamber, she stood for a moment motionless, 
while her lips moved nervously, for she knew this was Alice’s 
room. It was smaller than the others, and with its neat, white 
furniture, seemed well adapted to the pure, sinless child who 
was to occupy it. Here, too, she tarried long, gazing through 
blinding tears upon the little rocking chair just fitted to Alice’s 
form, looping up the soft lace curtains, brushing the dust 
from the marble mantel, and patting lovingly the snowy pil- 
lows for the sake of the fair head which would rest there 
some night. 

^There are no flowers here,” she said, glancing at the tiny 
vases on the stand. 'Alice is fond of flowers, and though 
they will get withered ere she comes, she will be sure to find 
them, and who knows but their faint perfume may remind her 
of me,” and going into the garden she gathered some hya- 
cinths and violets which she made into bouquets and placed in 
the vases, bidding the old woman change the water every day. 
until they began to fade, and then leave them to dry until the 
blind girl came. “Ben told me of her ; he once stayed at Red- 
stone Hall all night,” she said, in answer to the woman’s in- 
quiring look. “He says she is a sweet young creature and I 
thought flowers might please her.” 

“Fresh ones would,” returned Mrs. Russell, “but them that’s 


106 


MARIAN GREY 


withered ain't no use. S'pose I fling 'em away when they get 
old and put in some new the day she comes ?" 

‘^No, no, not for the world; leave them as they are,” and 
Marian spoke so earnestly that the old lady promised compli- 
ance with her request. 

^'Be you that Yankee peddler's sister?” she asked, as she 
followed Marian down the stairs. ''If you be, nater cut up a 
curis caper with one or t'other of you, for you ain't no more 
alike than nothin'.” 

"I believe I do not resemble him much,” was Marian's 
evasive answer, as with a farewell glance at the old place, she 
bade Mrs. Russell good-by and went with Ben down to the 
gate where the stage was waiting to take them back to the 
depot. 

It was dark when they reached New York, and as they 

passed the Hotel a second time, Marian spoke of the 

sick man, and wondered how he was. 

"I might go in and see,” said Ben, "but it's so late I guess 
I won't, particularly as he is nothin' to us.” 

"But he's something to somebody,” returned Marian, and as 
she followed on after Ben, her thoughts turned continually 
upon him, wondering if he had a mother — a sister — or a wife, 
and if they knew how sick he was. 

While thus reflecting they reached home, where they found 
Mrs. Burt entertaining a visitor — a Martha Gibbs, who for 

some time had been at the Hotel in the capacity of 

chambermaid, but who was to leave there the next day. 
Martha's parents lived in the same New England village 
where Mrs. Burt had formerly resided, and the two had thus 
become acquainted, Martha making Mrs. Burt the repository 
of all her little secrets, and receiving in return much motherly 
advice. She was to be married soon, and though her destination 
was a log house in the West, and her bridal trousseau con- 
sisted merely of three dresses — a silk, a delaine, and a calico 
— it was an affair of great consequence to her, and she had 
come as usual to talk it over with Mrs. Burt, feeling glad at 
the absence of Ben and Marian, the last of whom she sup- 
posed was an orphan niece of her friend's husband. The re- 
turn of the young people operated as a restraint upon her, and 
changing the conversation, she spoke at last of a sick man 
who was up in the third story in one of the rooms of which 
she had the charge. 

"He had the typhoid fever,” she said, "and was raving dis- 
tracted with his head. They wanted some good experienced 
person to take care of him, and had asked her to stay, she 


MARIAN GREY 


107 


seemed so handy, but she couldn't. John wouldn’t put their 
wedding off, she knew, and she must go, though she did pity 
the poor young man — he raved and took on so, asking them if 
anybody had seen Marian, or knew where she was buried!” 

Up to this point Marian had listened, because she knew it 
was the same man of whom Ben had told her in the morning ; 
but now the pulsations of her heart stopped, her head grew 
dizzy, her brain whirled, and she was conscious of nothing 
except that Ben made a hurried movement and then passed 
his arm around her, while he held a cup of water to her lips, 
sprinkling some upon her face, and saying, in a natural voice : 
“Don’t you want a drink? My walk made me awful dry.” 

It was dark in the room, for the lamp was not yet lighted, 
and thus Martha did not see the side play going on. She only 
knew that Ben was offering Marian some water; but Mrs. 
Burt understood it, and when sure that Marian would not 
faint, she said: 

“Where did the young man come from, and what is his 
name? Do you know?” 

“He registered himself as F. Raymond, Franklin County, 
Kentucky,” returned the girl; “and that’s the bother of it. 
Nobody knows where to direct a letter to his friends. But 
how I have stayed ! I must go this minute,” and greatly to the 
relief of the family, Martha took her leave. 

Scarcely had the door closed after her, when Marian was 
on her knees and, with her head in Mrs. Burt’s lap, was 
begging of her to offer her services as nurse to Frederic Ray- 
mond 1 

“He must not die there all alone,” she cried. “Say you will 
go, or my heart will burst. They know Martha for a trusty 
girl, and they will take you on her recommendation. Help 
me, Ben, to persuade her,” she continued, appealing to the 
young man, who had not yet spoken upon the subject. 

He had been thinking of it, however, and as he could see 
no particular objection, he said at last: 

“May as well go, I guess. It won’t do no hurt anyway, and 
mebby it ’ll be the means of savin’ his life. You can tell 
Martha how’t you ’spose he’ll pay a good price for nussin’, 
and she’ll think it’s the money you are after.” 

This suggestion was so warmly seconded by Marian, that 
Mrs. Burt finally consented to seeing Martha, and asking her 
what she thought of the plan. Accordingly, early the next 
morning she sought an interview with the young woman, in- 
quiring, first, how the stranger was, and then continuing: 

“What do you think of my turning nurse a while and 


108 


MARIAN GREY 


taking care of him ? I am used to such folks, and I presume 
the gentleman is plenty able to pay.” 

She had dragged this last in rather bunglingly, but it an- 
swered every purpose, for Martha, who knew her thrifty 
habits, understood at once that money was the inducement, 
and she replied: '^Of course he is. His watch is worth two 
hundred dollars, to say nothing of a diamond pin. I for one 
shall be glad to have you come, for I am going away some- 
time today, and there’ll be nobody in particular to take care 
of him. ril speak about it right away.” 

The result of this speaking was that Mrs. Burt’s offered 
services were readily accepted, for Martha was known to be 
an honest, faithful girl, and anyone whom she recommended 
must, of course, be respectable and trusty. By some chance, 
however, there was a misunderstanding about the name, which 
was first construed into Burton and then into Merton, and as 
Martha, who alone could rectify the error, left that afternoon, 
the few who knew of the sick man and his nurse, spoke of the 
latter as a ^'Mrs. Merton, from the country, probably.” So 
when at night Mrs. Burt appeared and announced herself as 
ready to assume her duties, she was surprised at hearing her- 
self addressed by her new name, and she was about to correct 
it when she thought, ‘Tt doesn’t matter what I’m called, and 
perhaps, on the whole, I’d rather not be known by my real 
name. I don’t believe much in goin’ out nussin’ an)rway, and 
I guess I’ll let ’em call me what they want to.” 

She accordingly made no explanation, but followed the serv- 
ant girl up the three long flight of stairs, and turning down 
a narrow hall, stood ere long at the door of the sick room. 


CHAPTER XIII 


THE FEVER 

Night and day Frederic Raymond had traveled, never aU 
lowing himself a minute's rest, nor even stopping at Yonkers, 
so intent was he upon reaching New York and finding, if 
possible, some clew to Marian. It seemed a hopeless task, for 
he had no starting point — nothing which could guide him in 
the least, save the name of Sarah Green, and even that was 
not in the directory, while to inquire for her former place 
of residence, was as preposterous as Marian’s inquiry for 
Mrs. Daniel Burt ! Still, whatever he could do he did, 
traversing street after street, treading alley after alley, ask- 
ing again and again of the squalid heads thrust from the dingy 
windows if Sarah Green had ever lived in that locality, and 
receiving always the same impudent stare and short answer, 
‘‘No.” 

Once, in another and worse part of the city, he fancied he 
had found her, and that she had not sailed for Scotland as she 
had written, for they had told him that “Sal Green lived up 
in the fourth story,” and climbing the crazy stairs, he knocked 
at the low, dark door, shuddering involuntarily and experienc- 
ing a feeling of mortified pride as he thought it possible that 
Marian — his wife — had toiled up that weary way to die. The 
door was opened by a blear-eyed, hard-faced woman, who 
started at the sight of the elegant stranger, and to his civil 
questions replied rather gruffly: “Yes, I’m Sal Green, I 
s’pose, or Sarah, jest which you choose to call me, but the 
likes of Marian Lindsey never came near me,” and glancing 
around the dirty, wretched room, Frederic was glad that it 
was so. He would rather not find her, or hear tidings of her, 
than to know she had lived and died in such a place as this, 
and with a sickening sensation he was turning away, when the 
woman, who was blessed with a remarkable memory, and 
never forgot anything to which her attention was particularly 
directed, said to him: “You say it’s a year last sence she 
left home?” 

“Yes, yes,” he replied, eagerly, and she continued: “You 
say she dressed in black, and wore a great long veil ?” 

“The same, the same,” he cried, advancing into the room 
Marian Grey 109 


110 


MARIAN GREY 


and thrusting a bill into the long hand. '^Oh, my good 
>voman, have you seen her, and where is she now?"' 

‘The Lord knows, mebby, but I don’t,” answered the 
woman, who was identical with the one who had so frightened 
Marian by watching her on that day when she sat in front of 
Trinity and wished that she could die. ‘T don’t know as I 
have seen her at all,” she continued, “but a year ago last 
November such a girl as you describe, with long curls that 
looked red in the sunshine, sat on the steps ’way down by 
Trinity and cried so hard that I noticed her, and knew she 
warn’t a beggar by her dress. It was gettin’ dark, and I 
was goin’ to speak to her when Joe Black came up and asked 
what ailed her, or somethin’. He ain’t none of the likeliest,” 
and a grim smile flitted over the visage of the wrinkled hag. 

“Oh, Heaven,” cried Frederic, pressing his hands to his 
head, as if to crush the horrid fear. “God save her from that 
fate. Is that all you know? Can’t you tell me any more? 
I’ll give you half my fortune if you’ll bring back my poor, lost 
Marian, just as she was when she left me.” 

The offer was a generous one, and Sal was tempted for a 
moment to tell him some big lie, and thus receive a companion 
to the bill she clutched so eagerly, but the agonizing expres- 
sion of his white face kindled a spark of pity within her 
bosom, and she replied : “I did not finish tellin’ you that while 
Joe was talkin’ and had seemin’ly persuaded her to go with 
him, a tall chap that I never seen before knocked him flat, and 
took the girl with him, and that’s why I remember it so well.” 

“Who was he, this tall man? Where did he go?” And 
Frederic wiped from his forehead the great drops of sweat 
forced out by terrible fear. 

“I told you I never seen him before,” was Sally’s answer, 
“but he had a good face — a milk and water face — as if he 
never plotted no mischief in his life. She’s safe with him, 
I’m sure. I’d trust my daughter with him, if I had one, and 
know he wouldn’t harm her. He spoke to her tender like, and 
she looked glad, I thought.” 

Frederic felt that this information w’as better than none, 
for it was almost certain it was Marian whom the woman had 
seen, and in a measure comforted by her assurance of Ben 
Burt’s honesty, he bade her good morning and walked rapidly 
away. 

At last, worn out and discouraged, he returned to his hotel, 
where he now lay burning with fever and, in his delirium, 
calling sometimes for Isabel, sometimes for Alice, and again 
for faithful Dinah, but never asking why Marian did not 


MARIAN GREY 


111 


come. She was dead, and he only begged of those around him 
to take her away from Joe Black, or show him where her 
grave was made, so he could go home and tell the blind girl 
he had seen it. Every ray of light which it was possible to 
shut out had been excluded from the room, for he complained 
much of his eyes, and when Mrs. Burt entered, she could 
discover only the outline of a ghastly face resting upon the 
pillows, scarcely whiter than itself. It was a serious case, 
the attending physician said, and so she thought when she 
looked into his wild, bright eyes, and felt his rapid pulse. To 
her he put the same question he had asked of nearly everyone : 

^‘Do you know where Marian is?” 

^‘Marian !” she repeated, feeling a little uncertain how to 
answer. 

“Humor him ! Say you do !” whispered the physician, who 
was just taking his leave. And, very truthfully, Mrs. Burt 
replied : 

“Yes, I know where she is ! She will come to you tomor- 
row.” 

“No!” he answered mournfully. “The dead never come 
back, and it must not be, either. Isabel is coming then, and 
the two can’t meet together here, for — Come nearer, woman, 
while I tell you 1 I loved Isabel the best, and that’s what made 
the trouble. She is beautiful, but Marian was good, and do 
you know Marian was the heiress of Redstone Hall ; but I’m 
not going to use her money.” 

“Yes, I know,” returned Mrs. Burt, trying to quiet him, but 
in vain. 

He would talk — sometimes of Marian, and sometimes of 
Sarah Green, and the dreary room where he had been. 

“It made Marian tired,” he said, “to climb those broken 
stairs — ^tired, just as he was now. But she was resting so 
quietly in heaven, and the April sun was shining on her 
grave. It was a little grave — a child’s grave as it were — for 
Marian was not so tall, nor so old as Isabel.” 

In this way he rambled on, and it was not until the morn- 
ing dawned that he fell into a heavy sleep, and Mrs. Burt had 
leisure to reflect upon the novel position in which she found 
herself. 

“It was foolish of me to give up to them children,” she said, 
“but now that I am here. I’ll make the best of it, and do as 
well as I can. Marian shan’t come, though ! It would kill 
her to hear him going on.” 

Mrs. Burt was a little rash in making this assertion, for 
even while she spoke, Marian was in the reception room be- 


112 


MARIAN GREY 


low, inquiring for the woman who took care of Mr. Ray- 
mond. Not once during the long night had her eyelids closed 
in sleep, and with the early morning she had started for the 
hotel, leaving Ben to get his breakfast as he could. 

‘'Say Marian Grey wishes to see her,’" she said, in answer 
to the inquiry as to what name the servant was to take to 
No. — . 

"My goodness!” exclaimed Mrs. Burt; "why didn’t Ben 
keep her at home?” and, gliding down the stairs, she tried to 
persuade Marian to return. 

But when she saw the firm, determined expression in the 
young girl’s eye, she knew it was useless to reason with her, 
and saying rather pettishly, "You must expect to hear some 
cuttin’ things,” she bade her follow up the stairs. Frederic, 
still lay sleeping, his face turned partly to one side, and his 
hand resting beneath his head. His rich brown hair, now 
damp with heavy moisture, was pushed back from his white 
forehead, which, gleaming through the dusky darkness, first 
showed to Marian where he lay. The gaslight hurt his eyes, 
and the lamp, which was kept continually burning, was so 
placed that its dim light did not fall on him, and a pear ap- 
proach was necessary to tell her just how he looked. It was 
nearly a year and a half since she had seen him last, and 
she remembered him then as full of life and health. But 
now he was fearfully changed, and, with a bitter moan, she 
laid her head beside him on the pillow, so that her short 
curls mingled with his darker locks, and she felt his hot 
breath on her cheek. 

"Frederic — dear Frederic!” she said, and at the sound of 
her voice he moved uneasily, as if about to awaken. 

"Come away, come away,” whispered Mrs. Burt. "He may 
know you, and a sudden start would kill him.” 

But Marian was deaf to all else save the whispered words 
dropping from the sick man’s lips. They were of home, of 
Alice, of the library, and oh, joy ! could it be that she heard 
aright — did he speak of her? Was it Marian he said? Yes, 
it was Marian, and with a cry of delight, which started Mrs. 
Burt to her feet, and penetrated even to the ear of the un- 
conscious Frederic, she pressed her lips upon the very spot 
which they had touched before on that night when she gave 
him her first kiss. Slowly his eyes unclosed, but the wildness 
was still there, and Mrs. Burt, who stood anxiously watching 
him, felt glad that it was so. Slowly they wandered about 
the room, resting first upon the door, then on the chandelier, 
then on the ceiling above, and dropping finally lower and 


MARIAN GREY 


113 


lower, until at last they met and were riveted upon Marian, 
who, with clasped hands, stood breathlessly awaiting the 
result. 

'‘Will he know her? Does he know her?^^ was the mental 
query of Mrs. Burt; while Marian’s fast-breathing heart 
asked the same question eagerly. There was a wavering, as 
it would seem — a fierce struggle between delirium and reason, 
and then, with a faint smile, he said : 

"Did you kiss me just now?” and he pointed to the spot 
upon his forehead. 

Marian nodded, for she could not speak, and he continued: 

"Marian kissed me there, too! Little Marian, who went 
away, and it has burned and burned into my veins until it set 
my brain on fire. Nobody has kissed me since, save Alice. 
Did you know Alice, girl?” 

"Yes,” answered Marian, keen disappointment swelling 
within her bosom and forcing the great tears from her eyes. 

She had almost believed he would recognize her, but he 
did not ; and sinking down by his side, she buried her face in 
the bedclothes, and sobbed aloud. 

"Don’t cry, little girl,” he said, evidently disturbed at the 
sight of her tears. "I cried when I thought Marian was dead, 
but that seems so long ago.” 

"Oh, Frederic — ” And forgetful of ever5dhing, Marian 
sprang to her feet. "Oh, Frederic, is it true? Did you cry 
for me?” 

At the sound of his own name the sick man looked be- 
wildered, while reason seemed struggling again to assert its 
rights and penetrate the misty fog by which it was en- 
veloped. Very earnestly he looked at the young girl, who 
returned his gaze with one in which was concentrated all the 
yearning love and tenderness she had cherished for him so 
long. 

"Are you Marian?” he said, and in an instant the excited 
girl wound her arms around his neck, and laying her cheek 
against his own, replied: 

"Yes, Frederic, yes. Don’t you know me, your poor lost 
Marian ?” 

Very caressingly he passed his hand over her short, silken 
curls — ^twined them about his long white fingers — pushed 
them back from her forehead — examined them more closely, 
and then whispered mournfully: 

"No, you are not Marian. This is not her hair. But I 
like you,” he continued, as he felt her tears drop on his face; 
"and I wish you to stay with me, and when the pain comes 


114 


MARIAN GREY 


back charm it away with your soft hands. They are little 
hands/' and he took them between his own, ^‘but not so small 
as Marian's were when I held one in mine and promised that 
I would love her. It seemed like some tiny roseleaf, and I 
could have crushed it easily, but I did not; I only crushed 
her heart, and she fled from me forever, for 'twas a lie I told 
her," and his voice sank to a lower tone. “I didn't love her 
then — I don't know as I love her now, for Isabel is so beau- 
tiful. Did you ever see Isabel, girl?" 

“Oh, Frederic!" groaned Marian, and wresting her hands 
from his grasp, she tottered to a chair, while he looked after 
her wistfully. 

“Will she go away?" he said to Mrs. Burt. “Will she leave 
me alone, when she knows Alice is not here, nor Isabel? I 
wish Isabel would come, don’t you?" 

There was another moan of anguish, and rolling his bright 
eyes in the direction of the armchair, the poor man whis- 
pered : 

“Hark! that's the sound I heard the night Marian went 
away ! I thought then 'twas the wind, but I knew afterwards 
that it was she, when her soul parted with her body, and it's 
followed me ever since. There is not a spot at Redstone Hall 
that is not haunted with that cry. I’ve heard it at midnight, 
at noonday — in the storm and in the rushing river — ^where we 
thought she was buried. All but Alice — she knew she wasn’t, 
and she sent me here to look. She don’t like Isabel, and is 
afraid I’ll marry her. Maybe I shall, sometime ! Who 
knows ?" 

And he laughed in delicious glee. 

“Heaven keep me, too, from going mad!" cried Marian. 
“Oh, why did I come here?" 

“I told you not to all the time," was Mrs. Burt’s con- 
solatory remark; which, however, was lost on Marian, who, 
seizing her bonnet and shawl, rushed from the room, unmind- 
ful of the outstretched arms which seemed imploring her to 
stay. 

The fresh morning air revived her fainting strength, but 
did not cool the feverish agony at her heart, and she sped on- 
ward, until she reached her home, where she surprised Ben at 
his solitary breakfast, which he had prepared himself. 

“Oh, Ben, Ben !" she cried, coming so suddenly upon him 
that he upset the coffee pot into which he was pouring some 
hot water. “Would it be wicked for you to kill me dead, or 
for me to kill myself?" 

“What’s to pay now?" asked Ben, using the skirt of his 


MARIAN GREY 


115 


coat for a holder in picking up the steaming coffee pot. 

Very hastily Marian related her adventures in the sick 
room, telling him how Frederic had talked of marrying Isabel 
before her very face. 

‘^Crazy as a loon,” returned Ben. shouldn't think nothin’ 
of that. You say he talked as though he thought you was 
dead, and of course he don't know what he's sayin'. Have 
they writ to his folks ?'' 

‘Yes,'' returned Marian, who had made a similar inquiry 
of Mrs. Burt. “They directed a letter to ‘Frederic Raymond's 
friends, Franklin County, Kentucky,' but that may not reach 
them in a long time.'' 

“Wouldn't it be a Christian act,” returned Ben, “for us, 
who know jest who he is, to telegraph to that critter, and have 
her come ? By all accounts he wants to see her, and it may do 
him good.” 

Marian felt that it would be right, and though it cost her a 
pang, she said at last : 

“Yes, Ben, you may telegraph; but what name will you ap- 
pend ?” 

“Benjamin Butterworth, of course,” he replied. “They'll 
remember the peddler, and think it nateral I should feel an 
interest.” And leaving Marian to take charge of the break- 
fast table, he started for the office. 

Meantime the sick room was the scene of much excitement 
— Frederic raving furiously, and asking for the girl with “the 
soft hands and silken hair.” Sometimes he called her Marian, 
and begged of them to bring her back, promising not to make 
her cry again. 

“There is a mystery connected with this Marian he talks so 
much about,” said the physician, who was present, “and he 
seems to fancy a resemblance between her and the girl who 
left here this morning. What may I call her name?” 

“Marian, my daughter,” came involuntarily from Mrs. 
Burt, whose mental rejoinder was : “God forgive me for that 
lie, if it was one. Names and things is gettin' so twisted up 
that it takes more than me to straighten 'em !” 

“Well, then,” continued the physician, “suppose you send 
for her. It will never do for him to get so excited. He is 
wearing out too fast.” 

“I will go for her myself,” said Mrs. Burt, who fancied 
some persuasion would be necessary ere Marian would be in- 
duced to return. 

But she was mistaken, for when told that Frederic's life de- 
pended upon his being kept quiet, and his being kept quiet de- 


116 


MARIAN GREY 


pended upon her presence, Marian consented, and nerved her- 
self to hear him talk, as she knew he would, of her rival. 

‘If he lives, I will be satisfied,” she thought, “even though 
he never did or can love me,” and with a strong, brave heart, 
she went back again to the sick man, who welcomed her joy- 
fully and, folding his feeble arms around her neck, stroked 
again her hair, as he said : “You will not leave me, Marian, 
till Isabel is here. Then you may go — back to the grave I 
cannot find, and we will go home together.” 

Marian felt each day more and more that the wound she 
hoped had partly healed was bleeding afresh with a new pain, 
for while he talked of Marian as a mother talks of an unfor- 
tunate child, he spoke of Isabel with all a lover's pride, and 
each word was a dagger to the heart of the patient watcher, 
who sat beside him day and night, until her eyes were heavy, 
and her cheeks were pale with her unbroken vigils. 

“Do you then love this Isabel so much?” she said to him 
one day, and sinking his voice to a whisper, he replied: “Yes, 
and I love you, too, though not like her because I loved her 
first.” 

“And Marian?” questioned the young girl. “Don't you 
love her?” 

Oh, how eagerly she waited for the answer, which, when it 
came, almost broke her heart. 

“Not as I ought to — not as I have prayed that I might, 
and not as I should, perhaps, have done, if she hadn't been to 
me what she is. Poor child,” he continued, brushing away 
the tears which rolled like rain down Marian's cheeks, “poor 
child, are you crying for Marian?” 

“Yes — yes, for Marian — for poor, heartbroken me”; and 
the wretched girl buried her face in the pillow beside him, 
for he held her firmly by the wrist, and she could not get 
away. 

In this manner several days went by, and over the intellect 
so obscured there shone no ray of reason, while the girlish 
face grew whiter with each morning light, and at last the 
physician said that she must rest, or her strength would be 
exhausted. 

“Let me stay a little while longer,” she pleaded, “stay at 
least until Miss Huntington arrives.” 

“Miss who?” asked the doctor. “Do you, then, know his 
family ?” 

“A friend of mine knows them,” answered Marian, a deep 
flush stealing over her cheek. 

“I hope, then, they will reward you well,” continued the 


MARIAN GREY 


117 


physician. ‘‘The young man would have died but for you. It 
is remarkable what control you have over him.'' 

But Marian wished for no reward. It was sufficient for 
her to know that she had been instrumental in saving his life, 
even though she had saved it for Isabel. The physician said 
that Frederic was better, and that afternoon, seated in the 
large armchair, she fell into a sweet, refreshing sleep, from 
which she was finally aroused by Mrs. Burt, who, bending 
over her, whispered in her ear: 

“Wake up. She's come — she’s here — Miss Huntington!" 

There was magic in that name, and it aroused the sleeping 
girl at once, sending a quiver of pain through her heart, for 
her post she knew must now be given to another. Not both 
of them could watch by Frederic, and she, the one who in all 
the world had the best right to stay, must go; but not until 
she had looked upon her rival and had seen once the face 
which Frederic called so beautiful. This done, she would go 
away and die, if it were possible, and stand no longer be- 
tween Frederic and the bride he so much desired. She did 
not understand why he had so often spoken of herself as be- 
ing dead, when he knew that she was not. It was a vagary 
of his brain, she said — ^he had had many since she came there, 
and she hoped he would sometimes talk of her to Isabel, just 
as he had talked of Isabel to her. There was a hurried con- 
sultation between herself and Mrs. Burt with regard to their 
future proceedings, and it was finally decided that the latter 
should remain a few days longer, and so report the progress 
of affairs to Marian, who, of course, must go away. This 
arrangement being made they sat down and rather im- 
patiently waited the coming of Isabel, who was in her room 
resting after her tiresome journey. 

“Oh, how can she wait so long?" thought Marian, glancing 
at Frederic, who was sleeping now more quietly than he had 
done before for a long time. 

She did not know Isabel Huntington, and she could not 
begin to guess how thoroughly selfish she was, nor how that 
selfishness was manifest in every movement. The letter, 
which at last had gone to Frankfort, was received the same 
day with the telegram, and, as a natural consequence, threw 
the inmates of Redstone Hall into a great excitement. Par- 
ticularly was this the case with Isabel, who, unmindful of 
everything, wrung her hands despairingly, crying out: “Oh, 
what shall I do if he dies?" 

“Do,” repeated Dinah, forgetting her own grief in her dis- 
gust. “For the Lord's sake, can't you do what you alius did? 


118 


MARIAN GREY 


Go back whar you come from, you and your mother, in 
course.’' 

Isabel deigned no reply to this remark, but hurried to her 
chamber, where she commenced the packing of her trunk. 

“Wouldn’t it look better for me to go?” suggested Mrs. 
Huntington, and Isabel answered: 

“Certainly not; the telegram was directed to me. No one 
knows me in New York, and I don’t care what folks say here. 
If he lives, I shall be his wdfe, of course, else why should he 
send for me. It’s perfectly natural that I should go.” And 
thinking to herself that she would rather Frederic should die 
than to live for another, she completed her hasty preparations, 
and was on her way to the depot before the household had 
hardly had time to realize what they were doing. 

Distressed and anxious as Isabel seemed, it was no part of 
her intentions to travel nights, for that would give her a sal- 
low, jaded look; so she made the journey leisurely, and even 
after her arrival took time to rest and beautify ere presenting 
herself to Frederic. She had ascertained that he was better, 
and had the best of care, so she remained quietly in her cham- 
ber an hour or so, and it was not until after dark that she 
bade a servant show her to the sick room. 

“I will tell them you are coming,” suggested the polite 
attendant ; and going on before her, he said to Mrs. Burt that 
“Miss Huntington would like to come in.” 

In the farthest corner of the room, w^here the shadows were 
the deepest, and where she would be the least observed, sat 
Marian, her hands clasped tightly together, her head bent for- 
ward, and her eyes fixed intently upon the door through which 
her rival would enter. Frederic was awake, and, missing her 
from her post, was about asking for her, when Isabel ap- 
peared, looking so fresh, so glowing, so beautiful, that for an 
instant Marian forgot everything in her admiration of the 
queenly creature, who, bowing civilly to Mrs. Burt, glided to 
the bedside, and sank upon her knees, gracefully — very grace- 
fully — just as she had intended doing, and, in fact, just as 
she had done at a private rehearsal in her own room ! Tighter 
the little hands were clasped together, and the head which had 
drooped before was erect now, as Marian watched eagerly for 
what would follow next. 

“Dear Frederic,” said Isabel, and over the white face in 
the armchair the hot blood rushed in torrents, for it seemed 
almost an insult to hear him thus addressed. “Dear Frederic, 
do you know me? I am Isabel”; and, unmindful of Mrs. 
Burt, or yet of the motionless figure sitting near, she kissed 


MARIAN GREY 


119 


his burning forehead, and said again: ‘'Do you know me?” 

The nails were making dark rings now in the tender flesh, 
while the blue eyes flashed until they grew almost as black as 
Isabel's, and still Marian did not move. She could not, until 
she heard what answer would be given. As the physician had 
predicted, Frederic was better since his refreshing sleep, and 
through the misty veil enshrouding his reason a glimmer of 
light was shining. The voice was a familiar one, and though 
it partially bewildered him, he knew who it was that bent so 
fondly over him. It was somebody from home, and with a 
thrill of pleasure akin to what one feels when meeting a fel- 
low-countryman far on a foreign shore, he twined his arms 
around her neck, and said to her joyfully: “You are Isabel, 
and you’ve come to make me well.” 

Isabel was about to speak again, when a low sob startled 
her, and turning in the direction from whence it came, she 
met a fierce, burning gaze which riveted her as by some mag- 
netism to the spot, and for a moment the two looked intently 
into each other’s eyes. Isabel and Marian, the one stamping 
indelibly upon her memory the lineaments of a face which 
had stolen and kept a heart which should have been her own, 
while the other wondered much at the strange white face 
which even through the darkness seemed quivering with pain. 

Purposely Mrs. Burt stepped between them, and thus the 
spell was broken, Isabel turning again to Frederic, while 
Marian, unlocking her stiff fingers, grasped her bonnet, and 
glided from the room so silently that Isabel knew not she was 
gone until she turned her head and found the chair empty. 

“Who was that?” she said to Mrs. Burt, “that young girl 
who just went out?” 

“My daughter,” answered Mrs. Burt, again mentally asking 
forgiveness for the falsehood told, and thinking to herself, 
“Mercy knows it ain’t my nater to lie, but when a body gets 
mixed up in such a scrape as this, I’d like to see ’em help it V 

After the first lucid interval, Frederic relapsed again into 
his former delirious mood, but did not ask for Marian. He 
seemed satisfied that Isabel was there, and he fell asleep again,, 
resting so quietly that when it was eleven Isabel arose and 
said : “He is doing well. I believe I will retire. I never sat 
up with a sick person in my life, and should be very little as- 
sistance to you. That daughter of yours is somewhere around, 
I suppose, and will come if you need help.” 

It was long after daylight ere Isabel awoRe, and when she 
did her first thought was of the girl she had seen the night 
before. “How white she was,” she said, as she made her 


120 


MARIAN GREY 


elaborate toilet, ‘^and how those eyes of hers glared at me, as 
if I had no business here. Maybe she has fallen in love while 
taking care of him"' ; and Isabel laughed aloud at the very idea 
of a nursing woman’s daughter being in love with the fastidi- 
ous Frederic ! Once she thought of Mrs. Daniel Burt, won- 
dering where she lived, and half wishing she could find her, 
and, herself unknown, could question her of Marian. 

‘‘Maybe this Mrs. Merton knows something of her,’^ she 
said, and thinking she would ask her if a good opportunity 
should occur, she gave an extra brush to her glossy hair, 
looked in a small hand mirror to see that the braids at the 
back of her head were right, threw open her wrapper a little 
more to show her flounced cambric skirt and then went to 
the breakfast room, where three attendants, attracted by her 
style and the prospects of a fee, bowed obsequiously and asked 
what she would have. This occupied nearly another hour, 
and it was almost ten ere she presented herself to Mrs. Burt, 
who was growing very faint and weary. 

At the physician’s request, more light had been admitted 
into the room, and Frederic, who was much better this morn- 
ing, recognized Isabel at once. He had a faint remembrance 
of having seen her the previous night, but it needed Mrs. 
Burt’s assertion to confirm his conjecture, and he greeted her 
now as if meeting her for the first time. Many questions he 
asked her of the people at home, and how they had learned of 
his illness. 

“We received a letter and a telegram, both,” said Isabel, 
continuing: “You remember that booby peddler who sold 
Alice the bracelet and frightened the negroes so? Well, he 
must have telegraphed, for his name was signed to the dis- 
patch, ‘Benjamin Butterworth.’ ” 

Mrs. Burt was very much occupied with something near 
the table, and Frederic did not notice her confusion, as he re- 
plied, “He was a kind-hearted man, I thought, but I wonder 
how he knew of my illness, and where he is now. Mrs. Mer- 
ton, has a certain Ben Butterworth inquired for me since I 
was sick?” 

“I know nobody by that name,” returned Mrs. Burt, and 
without stopping to think that her question might lead to some 
inquiries from Frederic, Isabel rejoined : “Well, do you know 
a Mrs. Daniel Burt?” 

“Mrs. Daniel Burt!” repeated Frederic, as if trying to re- 
call something far back in the past, while the lady in question 
started so suddenly as to drop the cup of hot water she held in 
her hand. 


MARIAN GREY 


121 


Stooping down to pick up the cup, she said something about 
its having burned her, and added: ''I ain’t much acquainted 
in the city, and never know my next-door neighbors.” 

^^Mrs. Daniel Burt?” Frederic said again. ‘‘I have surely 
heard that name before. Who is she, Isabel?” 

It was Isabel’s turn now to answer evasively; but being 
more accustomed to dissimulate than her companion, she re- 
plied, quite as a matter of course: '‘You may have heard 
mother speak of her in New Haven. I used to know her 
when I was a little girl, and I believe she lives in New York. 
She was a very good, but a very common kind of woman, and 
one with whom I should not care to associate, though mother, 
I dare say, would be glad to hear from her.” 

"The impudent trollop,” muttered Mrs. Burt, marveling at 
the conversation, and wondering which was trying to deceive 
the other, Frederic or Isabel. "The former couldn’t hood- 
wink her,” she said, "even if he did Isabel. She understood 
it all, and he knew who Mrs. Daniel Burt was just as well as 
she did, for even if he had forgotten that she once lived with 
his father, Marian’s letter had refreshed his memory, and he 
was only 'putting on’ for the sake of misleading Isabel. But 
where in the world did that jade know her?” that was a 
puzzle, and settling it in her own mind that there were two 
of the same name, she left the room and went down to her 
breakfast. 

In the morning Frederic was better than he had been be- 
fore. Mrs. Burt, who had watched him carefully, knew that 
the danger was past, and that afternoon she left him with 
Isabel, while she went home, where she found Marian 
seriously ill, with Ben taking care of her in his kind but 
awkward manner. 

"Did Frederic remember me? Does he know I have been 
there ?” were Marian’s first questions, and when Mrs. Burt re- 
plied in the negative, she turned away, whispering mourn- 
fully: "It is just as well.” 

"He is doing well,” said Mrs. Burt, "and as you need me 
more than he does now, I shall come home and let that Isabel 
take care of him. It won’t hurt her any, the jade. She can 
telegraph for her mother if she chooses.” 

Accordingly, she returned to the sick room, where she 
found Frederic asleep and Isabel reading a novel. To her an- 
nouncement of leaving, the latter made no objection. She 
was rather pleased than otherwise, for, as Frederic grew 
stronger, the presence of a third person, and a stranger, too, 
might be disagreeable. She would telegraph for her mother, 


122 


MARIAN GREY 


of course, as she did not think it quite proper to stay there 
alone. But her mother was under her control; she could dis- 
pose of her at any time, so she merely stopped her reading 
long enough to say : '‘Very well, you can go if you like. How 
much is your charge?'’ 

Mrs. Burt did not hesitate to tell her; and Isabel, who had 
taken care of Frederic's purse, paid her, and then resumed her 
book, while Mrs. Burt, with a farewell glance at her patient, 
went from the room, without a word of explanation as to 
where she could be found in case they wished to find her. 

It was dark when Frederic awoke, and it was so still 
around him that he believed himself alone. 

"They have all left me," he said; "Mrs. Merton, Isabel, and 
that other one, that being of mystery — who was she — who 
could she have been?" and, shutting his eyes, he tried to 
bring her before him just as he had often seen her bending 
o'er his pillow. 

He knew now that it was not a phantom of his brain, but a 
reality. There had been a young girl there, and when the 
world without was darkest, and he was drifting far down the 
river of death, her voice had called him back, and her hands 
had held him up so that he did not sink in the deep, angry 
waters. There were tears many times upon her face, he re- 
membered, and once he had wiped them away, asking why 
she cried. It was a pretty face, he said, a very pretty face, 
and the saucy eyes of blue seemed shining on him even now, 
while the memory of her gentle acts was very, very sweet, 
thrilling him with an undefined emotion, and awakening with- 
in his bosom a germ of that undying love he was yet to feel 
for that mysterious stranger. She had called him Frederic, 
too, while he had called her Marian. She had answered to 
that name, she had asked him of Isabel, and — "Oh, Heaven !" 
he cried, starting quickly, and clasping both hands upon his 
head. Like a thunderbolt it burst upon him, and for an in- 
stant his brain seemed all on fire. "It was Marian — it was 
Marian!" he essayed to say, but his lips refused to move, and 
when Isabel, startled by his sudden movement, struck a light 
and came to his bedside, she saw that he had fainted! 

In great alarm she summoned help, begging of those who 
came to go at once for Mrs. Merton. But no one knew of the 
woman's place of residence, and as she had failed to inquire, 
it was a hopeless matter. Slowly Frederic came back to con- 
sciousness, and when he was again alone with Isabel, he said 
to her: "Where is that woman who took care of me?" 

"She is gone," said Isabel. "Gone to her home." 


MARIAN GREY 


123 


*^Gone!'’ he repeated. ‘Where did she go, and why?' 

Isabel told him the particulars of Mrs. Burt's going, and 
he continued: 

‘Was there no one else here when you came? No young 
girl with soft blue eyes?" and he looked eagerly at her. 

‘Yes," she replied. ‘There was a queer acting thing sitting 
in the armchair the night I first came in — " 

“Who was she, and where is she now?" he asked; and 
Isabel answered; “I am sure I don't know where she is, for 
she vanished like a ghost." 

‘Yes, yes; but who was she? Did she have no name?" 
and Frederic clutched Isabel's arm nervously. 

“Mrs. Merton told me it was her daughter — ^that is all I 
know," said Isabel ; and in a tone of disappoinment, he con- 
tinued : 

“Will you tell me just how she looked, and how she acted 
when you first saw her?" 

“One would suppose you deeply interested in your nurse's 
daughter"; and the glittering black eyes flashed scornfully 
upon Frederic, who replied: 

“I am interested, for she saved my life. Tell me, won't 
you, how she looked?" 

“Well, then," returned Isabel pettishly, “she was about fif- 
teen, I think — certainly not older than that. Her face was 
very white, with big, blue eyes, which glared at me like a wild 
beast's ; and what is queerer than all she actually sobbed when 
I, or rather you, kissed me; perhaps you have forgotten that 
you did?" 

He had forgotten it, for the best of reasons, but he did not 
contradict her, so intent was he upon listening to her story. 

“I had not observed her particularly before; but when I 
heard that sound I turned to look at her, while she stared at 
me as impudently as if I had no business here. That woman 
stepped between us purposely, I know, for she seemed excited ; 
and when I saw the armchair again, the girl was gone." 

Thus far everything, except the probable age, had confirmed 
his suspicions; but there was one question more — an all-im- 
portant one — and with trembling eagerness, he asked: 

“What of her hair? Did you notice that?" 

“It was' brown, I think," said Isabel, “short in her neck and 
curly around her forehead. I should say her hair was rather 
handsome." 

With a sigh of disappointment, Frederic turned upon his 
pillow, saying to her : 

“That will do — I've heard enough." 


124 


MARIAN GREY 


Isabers last words had brought back to his mind something 
which he had forgotten until now — ^the girl's hair was short, 
and he remembered distinctly twining the soft rings around 
his fingers. They were not long, red curls, like those described 
by Sally Green. It wasn't Marian's hair — it wasn’t Marian at 
all; and in his weakness his tears dropped silently upon the 
pillow, for the disappointment was terrible. All that night 
and the following day he was haunted with thoughts of the 
young girl, and at last, determining to see her again, and 
know if she were like Marian, he said to Isabel : 

^^Send for Mrs. Merton. I wish to talk with her.'^ 

^Tt is an impossibility,” returned Isabel ; ‘Tor when she left 
us, I carelessly neglected to ask where she lived — ” 

“Inquire below, then,” persisted Frederic. “Somebody will 
certainly know, and I must find her.” 

Isabel complied with the request, and soon returned with the 
information that no one knew aught of Mrs. Merton's where- 
abouts, though it was generally believed that she came from 
the country, and at the time of coming to the hotel was visit- 
ing friends in the city. 

“Find her friends, then,” continued Frederic, growing more 
and more excited and impatient. 

This, too, was impossible, for everything pertaining to Mrs. 
Merton was mere conjecture. No one could tell where she 
lived, or whither she had gone ; and the sick man lamented the 
circumstance so often that Isabel once more lost her temper 
entirely, wondering why he should be so very anxious about a 
woman who had been well paid for her services — “yes, more 
than paid, for her price was a most exorbitant one.” 

Meantime, Mrs. Huntington, who, on the receipt of Isabel’s 
telegram, had started immediately, arrived laden with trunks, 
bandboxes, and bags, for the old lady was rather dressy, and 
fancied a large hotel a good place to show her new clothes. 
On learning that Frederic was very much better, and that she 
had been sent for merely on the score of propriety, she seemed 
somewhat out of humor. “Not that she wanted Frederic to 
die,” she said, “and she was glad of course that he was 
getting well, but she didn't like to be scared the way she was ; 
a telegram always made her stomach tremble so that she didn't 
get over it in a week; she had traveled day and night to get 
there, and didn’t know what she should have done if she 
hadn't met Rudolph Me Vicar in Cincinnati.” 

“Rudolph!” exclaimed Isabel. “Pray, where is he now?” 

“Here in this very hotel,” returned her mother. “He came 
with me all the way, and seemed greatly interested in you. 


MARIAN GREY 


125 


asking a thousand questions about when you expected to be 
married. Said he supposed Frederic’s illness would postpone 
it a while, and when I told him you wasn’t even engaged as I 
knew of, he looked disappointed. I believe Rudolph has re- 
formed I” 

'The wretch!’' muttered Isabel, who rightly guessed that 
Rudolph’s interest was only feigned. 

He had heard of her sudden departure for New York, and 
he had heard also — Agnes Gibson being the source whence the 
information came — ^that she might, perhaps, be married as 
soon as Frederic was able to sit up. Accordingly, he had him- 
self started northward, stumbling upon Mrs. Huntington in 
Cincinnati, and coming with her to New York, where he 
stopped at the same hotel, intending to remain there and wait 
for the result. He did not care to meet Isabel face to face, 
while she was quite anxious to avoid an interview with him; 
and after a few days she ceased to be troubled about him at 
all. Frederic absorbed all her thoughts, he appeared so dif- 
ferent from what he used to be — ^talking but little either to 
herself or her mother, and lying nearly all the day with his 
eyes shut, though she knew he was not asleep; and she tried 
in vain to fathom the subject of his reflections. But he 
guarded that secret well, and day after day he thought on, 
living over again the first weeks of his sickness in that cham- 
ber, until at last the conviction was fixed upon his mind that, 
spite of her short hair, spite of the probable age, spite of 
the story about Mrs. Merton’s daughter, or yet the letter 
from Sarah Green, that young girl who had watched with him 
so long and then disappeared so mysteriously, was none other 
than Marian — his wife. He did not shudder now when he re- 
repeated that last word to himself. It sounded pleasantly, 
for he knew it was connected with the sweet, womanly love 
which had saved him from death. The brown hair which 
Isabel had mentioned he rejected as an impossibility. It had 
undoubtedly looked dark to her, but it was red still, though 
worn short in her neck, for he remembered that distinctly. 
Sarah Green’s letter was a forgery — Alice’s predictions were 
true, and Marian still lived. 

But where was she now ? Why had she left him so abruptly, 
and would he ever find her? Yes, he would, he said. He 
would spare no time, no pains, no money in the search; and 
when he found her he would love and cherish her as she de- 
served. He was beginning to love her now, and he won- 
dered at his infatuation for Isabel, whose real character was 
becoming more and more apparent to him. His changed de- 


126 


MARIAN GREY 


meanor made her cross and fretful; while Agnes Gibson's 
letter, asking when she was to be married, and saying people 
there expected her to return to Kentucky a bride, only in- 
creased her ill humor, which manifested itself several time^ 
toward her mother, in Frederic’s presence. 

At last, in a fit of desperation, she wrote to Agnes Gibson 
that she never expected to be married — certainly not to Fred- 
eric Raymond — ^and if every young lady matrimonially in- 
clined should nurse her intended husband through a course of 
fever, she guessed they would become disgusted with man- 
kind generally, and that man in particular ! This done, Isabel 
felt better — so much better, indeed, that she resolved upon an- 
other trial to bring about her desired object, and one day, about 
two weeks after her mother's arrival, she said to Frederic: 

^‘Now that you are nearly well, I believe I shall go to New 
Haven, and, after a little, mother will come, too. I shall re- 
main there, I think, though mother, I suppose, will keep house 
for you this year, as she has engaged to do." 

To this suggestion Frederic did not reply just as she 
thought he would. 

It was a good idea, he said, for her to visit her old home, 
and he presumed she would enjoy it. Then he added, very 
faintly: ‘Alice will need a teacher here quite as much as in 
Kentucky, and you can retain your situation if you choose.'’ 

Isabel bit her lip, and her black eyes flashed angrily, as she 
replied : 

‘T am tired of teaching only one pupil, for there is nothing 
to interest me, and I am all worn out, too." 

She did look pale, and, touched with pity, Frederic said to 
her, very kindly: 

“You do seem weary, Isabel. You have been confined with 
me too long, and I think you had better go at once. I will run 
down to see you, if possible, before I return to Kentucky." 

This gave her hope, and, drying her eyes, which were filled 
with tears, Isabel chatted pleasantly with him about his future 
plans, which had been somewhat disarranged by his unex- 
pected illness. He could not now hope to get settled at River- 
side, as he called his new home, until some time in June — per- 
haps not so soon — but he would let her know, he said, in time 
to meet him there. 

A day or two after this conversation Isabel started for New 
Haven, whither in the course of a week she was followed by 
both her mother and Rudolph, the latter of whom was deter- 
mined not to lose sight of her until sure that the engagement, 
which he somewhat doubted, did not in reality exist. 


CHAPTER XIV 


THE SEARCH 

When the carriage containing Mrs, Huntington rolled 
away from the hotel, Frederic, who was standing upon the 
steps, experienced a feeling of relief in knowing that, as far 
as personal acquaintances were concerned, he was now alone 
and free to commence his search for Marian. Each day the 
conviction had been strengthened that she was alive — that she 
had been with him a few weeks before — and now every energy 
should be devoted to finding her. Once he thought of adver- 
tising, but she might not see the paper, and as he rather 
shrank from making his affairs thus public, he abandoned the 
project, determining, however, to leave no other means un- 
tried ; he would hunt the city over, inquire at every house, and 
then scour the surrounding country. It might be months, or 
it might be years, ere his object were accomplished; but ac- 
complish it he would, and with a brave, hopeful heart, he 
started out, taking first a list of all the Mertons in the direc- 
tory, then searching them out and making of them the most 
minute inquiries, except, indeed, in cases where he knew, by 
the nature of their surroundings, that none of their household 
had officiated in the capacity of nurse. The woman who had 
taken care of him was poor and uneducated, and consequently 
he confined himself mostly to that class of people. 

But all in vain. No familiar face ever came at his calk 
Nobody knew her whom he sought — no one had heard of 
Marian Lindsey. 

It was now three weeks since he commenced his search 
and he was beginning to despair of success. His presence, he 
knew, was needed in Kentucky, where Alice was left alone 
with the negroes, and where his arrangements for moving 
were not yet complete. His house on the river was waiting 
for him, the people wondering why he did not come, and as 
he sat thinking it all over, he resolved at last to go home and 
bring Alice to Riverside — to send for Mrs. Huntington as 
had been previously arranged, and then begin the search 
again. Of Isabel, too, he thought, remembering his hasty 
promise of going to New Haven, but this he could not do. 
So he penned her a few lines, telling her it was impossible 
Marian Grey 127 


MARIAN GREY 


128 

for him to come, and saying that on his return to Riverside 
with Alice, he should expect to find her mother and herself 
waiting to receive him. 

cannot do less than this,” he said. ''Isabel has been with 
me a long time, and though I do not feel toward her as I did, 
I pity her; for I am afraid she likes me better than she 
should. I have given her encouragement, too; but when I 
come back, I will talk with her candidly. I will tell her how 
it is, and offer her a home with me so long as she shall 
choose to stay. I will be to her a brother ; and when Marian 
is found, the two shall be like sisters, until some man who has 
not a wife already takes Isabel from my hands.” 

Thus deciding, Frederic wrote to Alice, telling her when he 
should probably be home, and saying he should stop for a day 
or so at Yonkers. 

That afternoon, as Frederic was sauntering leisurely down 
the street in the direction of the depot — for he intended going 
to Yonkers that night — he stumbled upon Ben, whose charac- 
teristic exclamation was : "Wall, square, glad to see you out 
ag’in, but I didn't b'lieve I ever should when I sent word to 
that gal. She come, I s'pose?” 

"Yes,” returned Frederic, "and I am grateful to you for 
your kindness in telegraphing to my friends. How did you 
know I was sick?” 

"Oh, Fm alius 'round,” said Ben. "Know one of them 
boys at the hotel, and he told me. I s'posed you'd die, and I 
should of come to see you mabby, only I had to go off peddlin’. 
Bizness afore pleasure, you know.” 

This remark seemed to imply that Frederic’s dying would 
have been a source of pleasure to the Yankee, but the young 
man knew that he did not intend it, and the two walked on 
together ; Ben plying his companion with questions, and learn- 
ing that both Isabel and Mrs. Huntington were now in New 
Haven, but would probably go to Riverside when Frederic re- 
turned from Kentucky. 

"That's a grand place,” said Ben; "fixed up in tiptop style, 
too. I took my sister out to see it, and she thought 'twas 
pretty slick. Wouldn’t wonder if you're goin’ to marry that 
black-haired gal, by the looks of things?” and Ben’s gray 
eyes peered sideways at Frederic, who replied: "I certainly 
have no such intentions.” 

"You don’t say it,” returned Ben. "I shouldn’t of took the 
trouble to sent for her if I hadn't s’posed you was kinder 
courtin’. My sister thought you was, and she or'to know, 
bein’s she’s been through the mill.” 


MARIAN GREY 


129 


Frederic winced under Ben's pointed remarks, and as a 
means of changing the conversation, said : I am not mis- 

taken, you spoke of your sister when in Kentucky, and Alice 
became quite interested. I've heard her mention the girl sev- 
eral times. What is her name?" 

^‘Do look at that boss — flat on the pavement. He's a goner," 
Ben exclaimed, by way of gaining a little time. 

Frederic's attention was immediately diverted from Ben, 
who thought to himself : ‘‘I’ll try him with half the truth, and 
if he's anyways bright he’ll guess the rest." 

“You as’t my sister's name. They tried hard to call her 
Mary Ann, I s’pose. My way of thinkin' 'tain’t neither one 
nor t'other, though mabby you’ll like it — Marian; 'tain't a 
common name. Did you ever hear it afore?" 

“Marian !" gasped Frederic, turning instantly pale, while a 
strange, undefinable feeling swept over him — a feeling that he 
had never been so near finding her as now. 

“Excuse me, square," said Ben, whose keen eye lost not a 
single change in the expression of Frederic’s face. “I’m such 
a blunderin' critter! That little blind gal told me your first 
wife was Marian, and I or 'to known better than to harrer 
your feelings with the name." 

“Never mind," returned Frederic faintly, “but tell me of 
your sister — and now I think of it, you said once you were 
from Down East, which I supposed referred to one of the 
New England States; Vermont, perhaps?" 

“Did use to live in Massachusetts," replied Ben. “But can't 
a feller move?" 

Frederic admitted that he could, and Ben continued: “I 
or'to told you, I s'pose, that Marian ain’t my own flesh and 
blood — she’s adopted, that's all. But I love her jest the same. 
Her name is Marian Grey," and Ben looked earnestly at Fred- 
eric, thinking to himself: “Won’t he take the hint when he 
knows, or at least had or’to know that her mother’s name was 
Grey ?" 

But hints were lost on Frederic. He had no suspicion of 
the truth, and Ben proceeded: “All her kin is dead, and as 
mother hadn’t no daughter she took this orphan, and I’m 
workin' hard to give her a good schoolin'. She can play the 
planner like fury, and talks the French grammar most as well 
as I do the English !" 

This brought a smile to Frederic's face, and he did not for 
a moment think of doubting Ben's word. 

“You seem very proud of your sister," he said at last, “and 
as I owe you something for caring for me and telegraphing 


130 


MARIAN GREY 


for my friends, let me show my gratitude by giving you some- 
thing for this Marian Grey. What shall it be? Is she fond 
of jewelry? Most young girls are.'' 

Ben stuck his hands in his trousers pocket and seemed to be 
thinking, then, removing his hands, he replied : ‘‘Mabby 
you'll think it sassy, but there is somethin' that would please 
us both. I told her about you when I came from Kentucky 
and she cried like a baby over that blind gal. Then, when you 
was sick, she felt worried ag’in, and wanted the wust kind to 
see you, 'cause, I beg your pardon, square, but I told her you 
was han’some. Jest give us your picter, if it ain’t bigger than 
my thumb, and would it be asking too much for you when you 
git home to send me the blind gal's. She’s an angel, and I 
should feel so good to have her face in my pocket. You can 
direct to Ben Butterworth — but law, you won't, I know you 
won't." 

‘Why not?" asked Frederic, laughing at the novel request. 
“Mine you shall surely have, and Alice’s also, if she consents 
Come with me now, for we are opposite a photograph gallery.^' 

The result of this was that in a short time Ben held in his 
hand a correct likeness of Frederic, which was of priceless 
value to him, because he knew how highly it would be prized 
by her for whom alone he had requested it. 

As they passed out into the street again, Frederic said to 
him rather abruptly: “Do you know Sarah Green?" 

“No," answered Ben, and Frederic continued: 

“Do you know Mrs. Merton?" 

Ben started a little, and then, repeating the name, replied: 

‘Ain't acquainted with that name neither. Who is she?" 

“She took care of me," returned Frederic, “and I would like 
to find her and thank her for her kindness.” 

“I shouldn’t s'pose she could of took care of you alone, sick 
as you was," said Ben, waiting eagerly for the answer, which, 
had it been what he desired, might have led to the unfolding 
of the mystery. 

But Frederic shrank from making Ben his confidant. “It 
was hard for her until Miss Himtington came." 

“Blast Miss Huntington,” thought Ben, now thoroughly 
satisfied that his companion did not care to discover Marian 
or he would certainly say something about her. 

Both she and his mother were sure that he knew she had 
been with him in his sickness, and if he really wished to find 
her, he would speak of her as well as of Mrs. Merton. 

“But he don't," thought Ben. “He don't care a straw for 
her, and she's right when she says she won't run after hini 


MARIAN GREY 


131 


any more. He don’t like Isabel none too well, and I raally 
b’lieve the man is crazy.” 

This settled the matter satisfactorily with Ben, who accom- 
panied Frederic to the depot, waiting- there until the departure 
of the train. 

‘^Give my regrets to that Josh, and the rest of the niggers, 
and don’t on no account forget the picter,” were his last 
words as he quitted the car, and then hurried home impatient 
to show Marian his surprise. 

He found her sitting by the open window — a listless, dreamy 
look in her blue eyes, and a sad expression upon her face, 
which said that her thoughts were far away in the Southland, 
where Nature had decked her beautiful home with all the 
glories of the merry month of May and the first bright days 
of June. 

‘‘Darling Alice,” she murmured, “I shall never see her 
again” ; and her tears were dropping upon her lap just as Ben 
came in, and began: 

“Wall, wee one, I’ve seen the square, and talked with him 
of you.” 

“Oh, Ben, Ben !” — and Marian’s face was spotted with her 
excitement — “what made you? What did he say, and where 
is he?” 

“Gone home,” answered Ben ; “but he had this took on pur- 
pose for you” ; and he tossed the picture into her lap. 

“It is — it is Frederic. Oh, Mrs. Burt, it is,” and Marian’s 
lips touched the glass, from which the face of Frederic Ray- 
mond looked kindly out upon her. 

It was thinner than when she used to know it, but fuller, 
stronger looking than when it lay among the tumbled pillows. 
The eyes, too, were hollow, and not so bright, while it seemed 
to her that the rich, brown hair was not so thrifty as of old. 
But it was Frederic still, her Frederic, and she pressed it 
again to her lips, while her heart thrilled with the joyful 
thought that he remembered her, and had sent her this price- 
less token. But why had he gone home without her — why 
had he left her there alone if he really cared for finding her? 
Slowly, as a cloud obscures a summer sky, a shadow crept 
over her face — a shadow of doubt, of distrust. There was 
something she had not heard, and with quivering lip she said 
to Ben : “What does it mean ? You have not told me why he 
sent it.” 

It was cruel to deceive her as he had done, and so Ben 
thought when he saw the heaving of her chest, the pressure 
of her hands, and, more than all, the whiteness of her face, as 


132 


MARIAN GREY 


he told her why Frederic sent to her that picture; that it was 
not taken for Marian Lindsey, but rather for Marain Grey, 
adopted sister of Benjamin Butterworth. 

^^He does not wish to find me,"' said Marian, when Ben had 
finished speaking. “We shall never be reconciled, and it is 
just as well, perhaps.” 

“I think so, too,” rejoined Ben, “or at any rate I’d let him 
rest for a spell, and learn everything there is in books for 
womankind to learn. You shall go to college if you say so, 
and bimeby, when the Old Nick himself wouldn’t know you, 
I’ll get you a chance to teach that blind gal, and he’ll fall in 
love with his own wife; see if he don’t,” and Ben stroked the 
curls within his reach very caressingly, thinking to himself : 
“I won’t tell her now ’bout Alice’s picter, ’cause it may not 
come, but I’ll cheer her up the best way that I can. She 
grows handsomer every day of her life,” and as this, in Ben’s 
estimation, was the one thing of all others to be desired by 
Marian, he could not forbear complimenting her aloud upon 
her rapid improvement in looks. 

“Thank you,” she answered, smiling faintly, for, to her, 
beauty or accomplishments were of little avail if, in the end. 
Frederic’s love were not secured. 


CHAPTER XV 


HOME AGAIN 

Frederic was coming home again — ‘^Marster Frederic,” 
who, as Dinah said, ‘‘had been so near to kingdom-come that 
he could hear the himes they sung on Sundays.” 

Joyfully the blacks told to each other the glad news, which 
was an incentive for them all to bestir themselves as they had 
not done before during the whole period of their master’s ab* 
sence. 

Dear little Alice! She built bright castles in the air that 
summer day, and they were as real to her as if Frederic had 
written: “Marian is found and coming home with me.” 

“She loved a great many flowers aroimd her,” she said, and 
groping her way down the stairs and out into the yard, she 
gathered from the tree beneath the library window a profu- 
sion of buds and half-opened roses, which she arranged into 
bouquets, and placed in vases for Marian, just as Marian had 
gathered flowers for her from the garden far away on th^ 
river. 

It was done at last; and very inviting that pleasant, airy 
apartment looked with its handsome furniture, its bright car- 
pet and muslin curtains of snowy white, to say nothing of the 
towering beds. There were flowers on the mantel, flowers on 
the table, flowers in the window, flowers everywhere, and their 
sweet perfume filled the air with a delicious fragrance, which 
Dinah declared was “a heap sight better than that scent Miss 
Isabel used to put on her hankercher and fan. Ugh, that 
fan!” and Dinah’s nose was elevated at the very thought of 
Isabel’s sandal-wood fan, which had been her special ab- 
horrence. 

“Isn’t it most time for Uncle Phil to start?” asked Alice, 
when Dinah had finished fixing the room. 

“Yes, high time,” answered Dinah, “but Phil is so slow. 
I’ll jest hurry him up,” and, followed by Alice, she descended 
the stairs, meeting in the lower hall with Lyd, who held in her 
hand a brown envelope, which she passed to Alice, saying: 
“One dem letters what come like lightnin’ on the telegraph. 
A boy done brung it.” 

“A telegram,” cried Alice, feeling at first alarmed. “Go 
for Mrs. Warren to read it.” 

Marian Grey J33 


134 


MARIAN GREY 


But the overseer's wife was absent, as was also her hus^ 
band, and neither the blacks nor Alice knew what to do. 

^‘There isn’t more than a line and a half,” said Alice, pass-, 
ing her finger over the paper and feeling the thick sand which 
had been sifted upon it. presume something has detained 
Frederic, and he has sent word that he will not be here to- 
day.” 

‘'Le' me see dat ar,” said Phil, who liked to impress his 
companions with a sense of his superior wisdom, and, adjust- 
ing his iron-bowed spec's, he took the letter, which in reality 
was Greek to him. 

After an immense amount of wry faces and loud whisper- 
ing he said: 

‘‘Yes, honey, you're correct, though Marster Frederic has 
sich an onery hand-write that it takes me a heap of time to 
make it out. It reads, ‘Somethin' has detained Frederic, and 
he has sent word that he'll be here to-morry.' ” And, with 
the utmost gravity, Phil took off his spec’s and was walking 
away with the air of one who has done something his com- 
panions could never hope to do, when Hetty call^ out: 

“Wonder if he 'spects us to swaller dat ar, and think he 
kin read, when he just done said over what Miss Alice say. 
Can't fool dis chile.” 

But alas for Uncle Phil. Mrs. Warren had made a mistake 
in Frederic’s last letter, the young man writing he should be 
home the fifteenth, whereas she had read it the seventeenth; 
afterward, Frederic had decided to leave Riverside one day 
earlier, and had telegraphed from Cincinnati for Phil to meet 
him. Finding neither carriage nor servant in waiting, he 
hired a conveyance, and about four o'clock P. M. from every 
cabin door there came the joyful cry : 

“Marster Frederic has come.” 

“Told you so,” said Hetty, with an exultant glance at Uncle 
Phil, who wisely made no reply, but hastened with the rest to 
tell his master: “How d'ye?” 

“How is it that someone did not meet me?” Frederic asked, 
after the first noisy outburst had somewhat subsided. “Didn't 
you get the dispatch?” 

The negroes looked at Phil, who stammered out: 

“Yes, we done got it, but dem old iron spec’s of mine is 
mighty nigh wore out; can't see in 'em at all, and I read ‘to- 
morrowy,' instead of ‘today.' ” 

The loud shout which followed this excuse enlightened 
Frederic as to the true state of the case, and he, too, joined in 
the laugh, telling the crestfallen Phil that “he should surely 


MARIAN GREY 


135 


have a new pair of silver spec's which would read 'today' in- 
stead of 'to-morry.' " 

"But where is Alice?" he continued. "Why don't she come 
to greet me ?" 

"Sure 'nough," returned Dinah. "Whar kin she be, when 
she was so fierce to have you come! Reckon she’s up in the 
best charmber, she’s been fixin' up for somethin’, she wouldn't 
tell what." 

"I’ll go and see," said Frederic, starting in quest of the 
little girl, who, as Dinah had conjectured, was in the front 
chamber — ^the one prepared with so much care for Marian. 

She had been sitting by the window when she heard the 
sound of wheels coming up the avenue. Then the joyful cry 
of "Marster’s cornin’," came to her quick ear, and, starting up, 
she bent her head to listen for another voice — a voice she had 
not heard for many a weary month. But she listened in vain, 
for Marian was not there. Gradually she became convinced 
of the fact, and, laying her face upon the window sill, she was 
weeping bitterly, when Frederic came in. Pausing for a 
moment in the door, he glanced around, first at the well-re- 
membered chair, then at the books upon the table, then at the 
flowers, and then he knew why all this had been done. 

"I would that it might have been so," he thought, and go- 
ing to the weeping Alice he lifted up her head and pushing 
her hair from her forehead, whispered to her softly: "Darl- 
ing, was it for Marian you gathered all these flowers?" 

"Yes, Frederic, for Marian," and Alice sobbed aloud. 

Taking her in his lap, Frederic replied, "Did you think I 
would bring her home ?" 

"Yes, I thought you had found her, and I was so glad. 
What made you write me that ?" 

"Alice, I did find her," returned Frederic; "I have seen 
her, I have talked with her. Marian is alive." 

At these words, so decidedly spoken, the blind eyes flashed 
up into Frederic’s face eagerly, wistfully, as if they fain 
would burst their veil of darkness and see if he told her 
truly. 

"Is it true? Oh, Frederic, you are not deceiving me? I 
can’t bear any more disappointment,” and Alice’s face and lips 
were white as ashes, as she proceeded further to question 
Frederic, who told her of the blue-eyed girl who, just as he 
was treading the brink of the river of death, had come to 
him and called him back to life by her kind acts and words of 
love. 

"She has a sweet, childish face," said he, "fairer, sweeter 


136 


MARIAN GREY 


than Marian’s when she went away — but Marian must have 
changed, for I know that this was she.” 

‘‘Frederic,” she began, and her little hand played with his 
hair, as it always did when she was uncertain as to how her 
remarks would be received. “Frederic, ain’t you loving 
Marian a heap more than you did when she went away?” 

Frederic did not hesitate a moment, ere replying: “Yes, 
darling, I am, for that young girl crept away down into my 
heart, where Marian ought to have been, before I asked her 
to be my wife; and I shall find her, too. I only stopped long 
enough to come home for you. The house is ready at River- 
side, and your room is charming.” 

“Will Isabel be there?” was Alice’s next inquiry, and Fred- 
eric answered her by telling her what he knew of the matter. 

It was nearly three weeks ere Frederic’s arrangements for 
leaving Kentucky were entirely completed, and it was not 
until the latter part of July that he finally started for his 
new home. The lamentations of the negroes were noisy in 
the extreme, though far more moderate than they would have 
been if their master had not said it was very probable he 
should return in the autumn, and merely make Riverside a 
summer residence. If he found Marian he should come back, 
of course, he thought, but he did not deem it best to raise 
hopes which might never be realized, so he said nothing of 
her to the blacks, who supposed, of course, that she was dead. 

It was at the close of a sultry summer day when the 
travelers reached Riverside, where they found Mrs. Hunt- 
ington waiting to receive them. Frederic had written, ap- 
prising her of the time when he should probably arrive, and 
asking her to be there if possible. Something, too, he had 
said of Isabel, but that young lady was not in the most 
amiable mood, and, as she was comfortably domesticated with 
another distant relative, she declined going to Frederic until 
he came to some understanding, or at least manifested a 
greater desire to have her with him than his recent letters in- 
dicated. Accordingly, her mother went alone, and Frederic 
was not sorry, while Alice was delighted. Everything seemed 
so light and airy, she said, just as though a load were taken 
from them, and like a bird she flitted about the house, for she 
needed to pass through a room but once ere she was familiar 
with its location, and could find it easily. With her own cozy 
chamber she was especially pleased, and in less than half an 
hour her little hands had examined every article of furniture, 
even to the vases which held the withered blossoms gathered 
so long ago. 


MARIAN GREY 


137 


‘'Somebody must have put these here for me/’ she said, and 
then her mind went back to the morning when she, too, had 
gathered flowers for an expected friend, and she wondered 
much who had done a similar service for her. 

Hearing a step in the hall, she asked who was there. 

“It’s me,” returned Mrs. Russell, who was still staying at 
Riverside. “Now, I wonder if you found them dried-up 
things so soon,” she continued, advancing into the room. “I 
should have ’em out, only that the girl who fixed ’em made me 
promise to leave ’em till you came. ’Pears like she b’lieved 
you’d think more on ’em for knowin’ that she picked ’em.” 

“Girl! Mrs. Russell. What girl?” And Alice’s eyes 
lighted up, for she thought at once of Marian, who would 
know, of course, about the house, and as she would naturally 
wish to see it, she had come some day and left these flowers, 
which would be so dear to her if she found her suspicions 
correct. “Who was the girl?” she asked again, and Mrs. 
Russell replied: 

“I don’t remember her name, but she went all over the 
house, fixing things in Mr. Raymond’s room, w^hich I didn’t 
think was very marnerly, bein’ that ’twan’t none o’ her’n. 
Then she come in here and set ever so long before she picked 
these posies, which she told me not to throw away.” 

“Yes, it was Marian,” came involuntarily from Alice’s lips, 
while the woman, catching at her name, rejoined: 

“That sounds like what he called her — ^that tall, spooky 
chap, her brother — Ben something. She said he had seen you 
at the South.” 

“Oh, Ben Butterworth. It was his adopted sister”; and 
Alice turned away, feeling greatly disappointed that Marian 
Grey, and not Marian Lindsey, had arranged those flowers for 
her. 

Not long after this, something which Mrs. Huntington said 
about her daughter determined Frederic to visit her and make 
the explanation which he felt it his duty to make, for he knew 
he had given her some reason to think he intended asking her 
to be his wife. He accordingly feigned some excuse for go- 
ing to New Haven, and one morning found himself at the 
door of the house where Isabel was stopping. 

“Give her this,” he said, handing his card to the servant, 
who carried it at once to the delighted young lady. 

“Frederic Raymond,” re^d Isabel. “Oh, yes. Tell him I’ll 
be down in a moment,” and she proceeded to arrange her hair 
a little more becomingly and to make several changes in her 
dress, so that the one moment was nearly fifteen ere she 


138 


MARIAN GREY 


started for the parlor, where Frederic was rather dreading her 
coming, for he scarcely knew what he wished to say. 

Half timidly she greeted him, as a bashful maiden is sup- 
posed to meet her lover, and seating herself at a respectful 
distance from him, she asked numberless questions concerning 
his health, her numberless friends in Kentucky, her mother, 
and dear little Alice, who, she presumed, did not miss her 
much. 

"‘Your mother^s presence reminds us of you very often, of 
course,’^ returned Frederic, *'but you know we can get accus- 
tomed to almost anything, and Alice seems very happy.’’ 

“Yes,” sighed Isabel. “You will all forget me, I suppose, 
even to mother — but for me, I have never been quite con- 
tented since I left Kentucky. I thought it tiresome to teach, 
and perhaps was sometimes impatient and unreasonable, but I 
have often wished myself back again. I don’t seem to be 
living for anything now,” and Isabel’s black eyes studied the 
pattern of the carpet quite industriously. 

This long speech called for a reply, and Frederic said: 
“You would not care to come back again, would you?” 

“Why, yes,” returned Isabel; “I would rather do that than 
nothing.” 

For a time there was silence, while Frederic fidgeted in his 
chair and Isabel fidgeted in hers, until at last the former said : 

“I owe you an explanation, Isabel, and I have come to make 
it. Do you remember our conversation in the parlor, and to 
what it was apparently tending, when we were interrupted by 
Alice?” 

“Yes,” replied Isabel, “and I have thought of it so often, 
wondering if you were in earnest, or if you were merely 
trifling with my feelings.” 

“I certainly had no intention of trifling with you,” returned 
Frederic; “neither do I know that I was really in earnest. At 
all events it is fortunate for us both that Alice came in as she 
did”; and having said so much, Frederic could now look 
calmly upon a face which changed from a serene summer sky 
to a dark, lightning-laden thunder-cloud as he told her the 
story he had come to tell. 

In her terrible disappointment, Isabel so far forgot herself 
as to lose her temper entirely, and Frederic, while listening to 
her as she railed at him for what she called his perfidy, won- 
dered how he ever could have thought her either womanly or 
good. 

He arose to go, saying to her as he reached the door : “I 
did not come here to quarrel with you, Bell, I wish still to be 


MARIAN GREY 


139 


your friend, and if you are ever in trouble, come to me as to 
a brother. Marian will, I trust, be with me, then; but she 
will be kind to you, for ’tis her nature.'' 

^Tlague on that Marian," was Isabel's unladylike thought 
as the door closed after Frederic. “I wonder how many times 
she's coming to life ! How I wanted to charge him with his 
meanness in marrying her fortune, but as that is a secret be- 
tween the two, he would have suspected me of treachery. The 
villain! I believe I hate him — and only to think how those 
folks in Kentucky will laugh. But it's all Agnes' doings. She 
inveigled more out of me than there was to tell, and then re- 
peated it to suit herself. The jade 1 I hope she's happy with 
that old man" — and at this point Isabel broke down in a flood 
of tears, in the midst of which the door bell rang again, and 
hurrying up the stairs she listened to the names, which this 
time were “Mr. and Mrs. Rivers" — Agnes and her husband — 
and they asked for her. 

Drying her tears, and bathing her eyes until the redness 
was gone, Isabel went down to meet the “tattling miscliief- 
maker," embracing her very affectionately, and telling her 
how delighted she was to see her again, and how well she was 
looking. 

“Then why do you not embark on the sea of matrimony 
yourself, if you think it such a beautifier," said Agnes. 

“Me?" returned Isabel with a toss of her head; “I thought 
I wrote you that I had given up that foolish fancy." 

“Indeed, so you did," said Agnes, “but I had forgotten it, 
and when I saw Mr. Raymond at the Tontine, where we are 
stopping, I supposed, of course, he had come to see you, and 
I said to Mr. Rivers it was really too bad, for from what he 
said at our wedding I fancied there was nothing in it, and 
had made up my mind to take you with us to Florida, as I 
once talked of doing. Husband’s sister wants a teacher for 
her children, don't she, dear ?" 

Mr. Rivers was about to answer in the affirmative, but ere 
he could speak Isabel chimed in: “Oh, you kind, thoughtful 
soul. Let me go with you now; do. Nothing could please me 
more. I have missed your society so much, and am so un- 
happy here 1" and in the black eyes there was certainly a 
tear, which instantly touched the heart of the sympathetic old 
man, who anticipated his wife’s reply, by saying: “Certainly 
you shall go, if you like. You’ll be company for Mrs. Rivers, 
and if I am in my dotage, as some say, I've sense enough to 
know that she can't be contented all the time with her grand- 


140 


MARIAN GREY 


father. Eh, Aggie and he chucked his bride under the chin. 

‘'Disgusting thought Isabel. 

“Old fool V’ thought Agnes, who was really rather pleased 
with the idea of having Isabel go with her to her new home, 
for though she did not love her dear friend, she rather en- 
joyed her company, and she felt that anybody was acceptable 
who would stand as a third person between herself and the 
grandfather she had chosen. 

The more she thought of the plan the better she was pleased 
with it, and before parting the whole was amicably adjusted. 
Early in October, Isabel was to join her friend in Kentucky, 
and go with her from thence to Florida, where she was either 
to remain with Mrs. Rivers, or to teach in the family of Mrs. 
McGregor, Mr. Rivers' sister. 


CHAPTER XVI 


THE GOVERNESS 

It was a bright September afternoon, and the dense foliage 
of the trees looked as fresh and green as when watered by the 
summer showers, save here and there a faded leaf came 
rustling to the ground, whispering to those at whose feet it 
fell of the winter which was hastening on, and whose breath 
even now was on the northern seas. Softly the autumnal sun- 
light fell upon the earth, and the birds sang as gayly in the 
trees as if there were no hearts bereaved — no small, low 
rooms where all was darkness and gloom — no humble pro- 
cession winding slowly through the crowded streets and out 
into the country, where, in a new-made grave, a mother’s love 
was buried, while the mourners, two in number, a young man 
and a girl, held each other’s hand in token that they were 
bound together by a common sorrow. 

For many days that window had been darkened, just as it 
was when Marian Grey lay there with the fever in her veins ; 
but it was open now, and the west wind came stealing in, 
purifying the room from the faint, sickening smell of coffins 
and death, for the Destroyer had been there. And when the 
mourners came back from that grave in the country, one 
threw himself upon the lounge, and burying his face in the 
cushions, sobbed aloud : 

‘‘Oh, Marian, it’s terrible to be an orphan and have no 
mother.” 

^'Yes, Ben, ’tis terrible,” and Marian’s tears dropped on the 
hair of the honest-hearted Ben. 

Up to this hour he had restrained his grief, but now that he 
was alone with Marian, he wept on until the sun went down 
and the night shadows were creeping into the room. Then, 
lifting up his head, he said: ^Tt is so dark — so dismal now — 
and the hardest of all is the givin’ up our dear old home where 
mother lived so long, and the thinkin’ maybe you’ll forget me 
when you live with that grand lady.” 

^'Forget you ! Oh, Ben, I never can forget how much you 
have done for me, denying yourself everything for my sake,” 
said Marian, while Ben continued: “Nor won’t you be 
ashamed of me, neither, if I should come sometimes to see 
Marian Grey 141 


142 


MARIAN GREY 


you? I should die if I could not once in a while look into 
your eyes ; and you'll let me come, won't you, Marian ?" 

course I will," she replied, continuing after a moment : 
is not certain yet that I go to Mrs. Sheldon's. I have not 
answered her last letter because— You know what we talked 
about before your mother died ?" 

^Yes, yes, I know," returned Ben, ‘^but I had forgot it — my 
heart was so full of other things. I'll go out there tomorrow. 
I'd rather you should teach at Riverside, even if you'd never 
heard of Frederic, than go to that grand lady, who might 
think, because you was a governess, that you wan't fit to live 
in the same house." 

‘^I have no fears of that," said Marian. ^‘Mrs, Harcourt 
says she is an estimable woman; but still I, too, would rather 
go to Riverside, if I were sure Frederic would not know me. 
Do you think there is any danger?" 

‘"No," was Ben's decided answer, and in this opinion 
Marian herself concurred, for she knew that within the last 
two years she had changed so much that none who saw her 
when first she came to Mrs. Burt's would recognize her now. 

About three months before the night of which we are 
writing, she had been graduated at Mrs. Harcourt's school 
with every possible honor, both as a musician and a scholar. 
There had never been her equal there before, Mrs. Harcourt 
said, and when her friend, Mrs. Sheldon, who lived in Spring- 
field, Mass., applied to her for a family teacher, she warmly 
recommended her favorite pupil, Marian Grey, frankly 
stating, however, that she was of humble origin — ^that her 
adopted mother or aunt was a poor sewing woman, and her 
adopted brother a peddlar. This, however, made no difference 
with Mrs. Sheldon, and several letters had passed between 
herself and Marian, who would have accepted the liberal offer 
at once, but for a lingering hope that Ben would carry out his 
favorite plan, and procure her a situation as teacher at River- 
side. She had forgotten what she had once said about learning 
to hate Frederic, and the possibility of living again beneath the 
same roof with him made her heart beat faster than its wont. 
She had occasionally met him in the streets, and once she 
was sure his eye had rested upon her in passing, but she knew 
by its expression that she was not recognized, and when Ben 
suggested offering her services as Alice’s governess, she 
readily consented. 

During the two years Ben had not lost sight of Frederic's 
movements, though it so chanced that they had met twice, 
once just after the receipt of Alice’s picture, which had been 


MARIAN GREY 


143 


greeted by Marian with a shower of kisses and tears, and once 
the previous autumn, when Frederic was about returning to 
Kentucky, for with his changed feelings toward Marian, Mr. 
Raymond felt less delicacy in using her money — less aversion 
to Redstone Hall, where his presence was really needed, for a 
portion of the year at least, and which he intended making his 
winter residence. 

But he was at Riverside now, and Ben was about going 
there to see what arrangements could be made, when his 
mother’s sudden death caused both himself and Marian to for- 
get the subject until the night after the burial, when, without 
a moment forgetting the dead or the dreary blank her absence 
made, they talked together of the future, and decided that on 
the morrow Ben should go to Riverside and see if there were 
room in Frederic’s house for Marian Grey. The morrow 
came, and at an early hour Ben started, bidding Marian keep 
up her spirits, as he was sure of bringing her good tidings. 

Frederic was sitting in his armchair, which stood near the 
window, just where Marian had placed it two years and a 
half ago. Not that it had never been moved since that April 
morning, for, freed from old Dinah’s surveillance, Mrs. Hunt- 
ington, who was still at Riverside, proved herself a pattern 
housekeeper, and the chair had probably been moved a thous- 
and times to make room for the broom and brush, but it was 
in its old place now, and Frederic was sitting in it, thinking 
of Marian and his hitherto fruitless efforts at finding her. He 
was beginning to get discouraged, and still each time that he 
went to the city he thought, "‘Perhaps I may meet her today,” 
and each night, as the hour of his return drew near, Alice 
waited upon the piazza when the weather was fine, and by the 
window when it was cold, listening intently for another step 
than Frederic’s — a step which never came, and even Alice 
grew less hopeful, while Marian seemed farther and farther 
away as month after month went by bringing no tidings of 
her. Frederic knew that she must necessarily have changed 
somewhat from the Marian of old, for she was a woman now, 
but he should readily recognize her, he said. He should know 
her by her peculiar hair, if by no other token. So when his 
eye rested on a face of surpassing sweetness, shaded by curls 
of soft chestnut hair, which in the sunlight wore a rich red 
tinge, he felt a glow like that which one experiences in gazing 
for a single instant on some picture of rare loveliness; then 
the picture faded, the graceful figure glided by, and there was 
nothing left to tell how, by stretching forth his hand, he might 
have grasped his long-lost Marian. Moments there were 


144 


MARIAN GREY 


when she seemed near to him, almost within his reach, and 
such a moment was the one when Mrs. Huntington announced 
Ben Butterworth, whom he had not seen for a long time. 

Involuntarily he started up, half expecting his visitor had 
come to tell him something of her. But when he saw the 
crape upon Ben’s hat, and the sorrow on his face, he forgot 
Marian in his anxiety to know what had happened. 

‘^My mother’s dead,” said Ben, and the strong man, six feet 
high, sobbed like a little child, bringing back to Frederic’s 
mind the noiseless room, the oddly-shaped box, the still, white 
face, and tolling bell, which were all he could distinctly re- 
member of the day when he, too, said to a boy like himself : 
“My mother’s dead.” 

Those three words. Alas, how full of anguish is their utter- 
ance, and how their repetition will call up an answering throb 
in the heart of everyone who has ever said in bitterness of 
grief: “My mother’s dead!” 

Frederic felt it instantly, and it prompted him to take again 
the rough hand, which he pressed warmly in token of his 
sympathy. 

“He is a good man,” thought Ben, wiping his tears away; 
and after a few choking coughs and brief explanations as to 
the cause and time of her death, he came at once to the object 
of his visit. 

“He should peddle now just as he used to do, of course, but 
wimmen wan’t so lucky, and all Marian could do was to teach. 
He had given her a tiptop lamin’, though she had earnt some 
on’t herself by sewin’. She had got a paper thing, too, with 
a blue ribbin, from Miss Harcourt, who praised her up to the 
skies! In short, if Mr. Raymond had not any teacher for 
Alice, wouldn’t he take Marian Grey?” and Ben twirled his 
hat nervously, while he waited for the answer. 

“I wish you had applied to me sooner,” said Frederic, “for 
in that case I would have taken her, but a Mrs. Jones, from 
Boston, came on only a week ago, so you see I am supplied. 
I am very sorry, for I feel an interest in Miss Grey, and will 
use my influence to procure her a situation.” 

“Thank you ; there’s a place she can have, but I wanted her 
to come here,” returned Ben, who was greatly disappointed, 
and began to cry again. 

^ Frederic was somewhat amused, besides being considerably 
disturbed, and after looking at the child-man for a moment, 
he continued : 

“Mrs. Jones is engaged for one year only, and if at the end 


MARIAN GREY 


145 


of that time Miss Grey still wishes to come, I pledge you my 
word that she shall do so.” 

This brought comfort at once. One year was not very long 
to wait, and by that time Marian would certainly be past 
recognition, and as all Ben’s wishes and plans centered upon 
one thing, to wit : Mr. Raymond’s falling in love with his un- 
known wife, he was readily consoled, and wiping his eyes, he 
said apologetically, as it were : ^‘I’m dreadful tender-hearted, 
and since I’ve been an orphan it’s ten times wuss. So you 
must excuse my actin’ like a baby. Where’s Alice ?” 

Frederic called the little girl, who, child-like, waited to put 
on her bracelet, ‘^so as to show the man that she still wore it 
and liked it very much.” She seemed greatly pleased at meet- 
ing Ben again, asking him why he had not been there before, 
and if he had received her picture. 

'Yes, wee one,” said he, taking her round, white arm in his 
hand and touching the bracelet. 'T should of writ, only that 
ain’t in my line much, and I don’t always spell jest right, but 
we got the picter, and Marian was so pleased she cried.” 

"What made her?” asked Alice wonderingly. "She don’t 
know me.” 

"But she knows you’re blind, for I told her,” was Ben’s 
quick reply, which was quite satisfactory to Alice, who by this 
time had detected a note of sadness in his voice, and she asked 
what was the matter. 

To her, also, Ben replied: "My mother’s dead,” and the 
mature little girl understood at once the dreary loneliness that 
mother’s death must bring even to the heart of a big man like 
Ben. Immediately, too, she thought of Marian Grey, and 
asked: "What she would do?” 

"I came out to see your pa — no, beg your pardon — ^to see if 
the square didn’t want her to hear you say your lessons,” was 
Ben’s answer, and Alice exclaimed: "Oh, Frederic, let her 
come. I know I shall like her better than Mrs. Jones, for 
she’s young and pretty, I am sure. May she come?” 

"Alice,” said Frederic, "Mrs. Jones has an aged mother and 
two little children dependent upon her earnings, and, should 
I send her away, the disappointment would be very great. 
Next year, if we all live. Miss Grey shall come, and with this 
you must be satisfied.” 

Alice saw at once that he was right, and she gave up the 
point, merely remarking that "a year was a heap of a while.” 

"No, ’tain’t,” said Ben, who each moment was becoming 
more and more reconciled to the arrangement. 

One year’s daily intercourse with fashionable people, he 


146 


MARIAN GREY 


thought, would be of invaluable service to Marian, and as he 
wished her to be perfect both in looks and manners when he 
presented her to Frederic Raymond, he was well satisfied to 
wait, and he returned to New York with a light, hopeful 
heart. Marian, on the contrary, was slightly disappointed, 
for, like Alice, a year seemed to her a long, long time. Still, 
there was no alternative, and she wrote immediately to Mrs. 
Sheldon that she would come as early as the first day of Oc- 
tober. It was hard to break up their old home, but it was 
necessary, they knew, and with sad hearts they disposed of 
the furniture, gave up the rooms, and then, when the time 
appointed came, Marian started for her new home, accom- 
panied by Ben, who went rather unwillingly. 

‘We ain’t no more alike than ile and water,” he said, when 
she first suggested his going, “and they won’t think so much 
of you for seein’ me.” 

But Marian insisted, and Ben went with her, mentally re- 
solving to say but little, as by this means, he fancied, “he 
would be less likely to show how big a dolt he was !” 


CHAPTER XVII 


WILL GORDON 

Mrs. Sheldon^s residence was a most beautiful spot, re- 
minding Marian a little of Redstone Hall, and as she passed 
up its nicely graveled walk and stepped upon its broad piazza, 
she felt that she could be very happy there, provided she met 
with sympathizing friends. Any doubts she might have had 
upon this subject were speedily dispelled by the appearance 
of Mrs. Sheldon, in whose face there was something very 
familiar; and it was not long ere Marian identified her with 
the lady who had spoken so kindly to her in the car between 
Albany and New York, asking her what was the matter, and 
if she had friends in the city. This put Marian at once at her 
ease, and her admiration for her employer increased each 
moment, particularly when she saw how gracious she was to 
Ben, who, true to his resolutions, scarcely spoke except to 
answer Mrs. Sheldon’s question, and to decline her invitation 
to dinner. 

‘T should never get through that in the world without some 
blimder,” he thought, and as the dinner bell was ringing, he 
took his leave, crying like a child when he parted with Marian, 
who was scarcely less affected than himself. 

Going to the depot, he sauntered into the ladies’ room, 
where he found a group of young girls, who were waiting the 
arrival of a friend, and who, meantime, were ready for any 
fun which might come up. Ben instantly attracted their atten- 
tion, and one who seemed to be the leader of the party, began 
to quiz him, asking '‘where he lived, and if he had ever been 
so far from home before?” 

Ben understood the drift of her remarks at once, and with 
imperturbable gravity replied: 

‘T come from Down East, where they raise sich as me, and 
this is the fust time I was ever out of Tanton, which alius was 
my native town I” 

Then, taking his tobacco box from his pocket, he passed it 
to an elegant-looking man, whom he readily divined to be the 
brother of the girl, saying to him: 

^'Have a chaw, captain? Td jest us lief you would as not.” 
Marian Grey 147 


148 


MARIAN GREY 


As he heard the loud laugh which this speech called forth, 
he continued, without the shadow of a smile: 

‘‘I had — 'strue's I live, for I ain’t none o’ your tight critters. 
Nobody ever said that of Ben Bur — Ben Butterwith,” he 
added hastily, for until Marian was discovered to Frederic, 
he thought it best to retain the latter name. 

“Ben Butterworth,” repeated the young girl aside to 
her brother. “Why, Will, didn’t Sister Mary tell us that was 
the adopted brother or cousin of her new governess? You 
know Miss Grey mentioned his name in one of her letters.” 

“Yes, sir,” said Ben, ere Will had time to reply. “If by 
Mary you mean Miss Sheldon, I’m the chap. Brought my 
sister there today, to be her schoolma’am, and I don’t want 
you to run over her neither, ’cause you’ll be sorry bimeby. 
That was all gammon I told you about never being away from 
home before, for I’ve seen considerable of the world.” 

The cars from Boston were by this time rolling in at the 
depot, and, without replying to Ben’s remark, the young lady 
went out to look for her friend. 

That night, just after dark, Mrs. Sheldon’s door bell rang, 
and her brother and sister came in, the latter dressed in the 
extreme of fashion, and bearing about her an air which 
Seemed to indicate that she had long been accustomed to re- 
ceive the homage of those around her. Seating herself upon 
the sofa, she began : “Well, Mary, Will and I have come over 
to see this wonderful prodigy. Mother was here, you know, 
this afternoon, and she came home half wild on the subject of 
Miss Grey, insisting that I should call directly, and so, like a 
dutiful daughter, I have obeyed, though I must confess that 
the sight of Ben Butterworth, whom we met at the depot, did 
not greatly prepossess me in her favor.” 

“They are not at all alike,” said Mrs. Sheldon, “neither are 
they in any way related. Miss Grey is highly educated, and 
has the sweetest face I ever saw. She has some secret trouble, 
too, I’m sure, and she reminds me of a beautiful picture over 
which a veil is thrown, softening, and at the same time height- 
ening its beauty.” 

“Really,” said Will, rousing up, “some romance connected 
with her. Do bring her out at once.” 

Mrs. Sheldon left the room, and going up to Marian’s 
chamber, knocked at the door. A low voice bade her come in, 
and she entered just in time to see Marian hide away the 
photograph of Frederic, at which she had been looking. 

“My brother and sister are in the parlor and have asked for 
you,” she said. 


MARIAN GREY 


149 


‘‘I will come down in a moment,” returned Marian, who 
wished a little time to dry her tears, for she had been weeping 
over the pictures of Frederic and Alice, both of which were in 
her possession. 

Accordingly, when Mrs. Sheldon was gone, she bathed her 
face until the stains had disappeared; then smoothing her 
collar and brushing her wavy hair, she descended to the par- 
lor, where Ellen Gordon sat prepared to criticize, and Wil- 
liam Gordon sat prepared for almost anything, though not for 
the vision which greeted his view when Marian Grey appeared 
before him. 

The dazzling purity of her complexion contrasted well with 
her black dress, and the natural bloom upon her cheek was 
increased by her embarrassment, while her eyes drooped mod- 
estly beneath the long-fringed lashes, which Ellen noticed at 
once, because they were the one coveted beauty which had 
been denied to herself. 

^‘Jupiter!” was Will’s mental comment. '^Mary didn’t ex- 
aggerate in the least, and Nell will have to yield the palm at 
once.” 

Something like this passed through Ellen’s mind, but though 
on the whole a frank, right-minded girl, she was resolved 
upon finding fault with the stranger, simply because her 
mother and sister had said so much in her praise. 

‘^She is vulgar, I know,” she thought, and she watched 
narrowly for something which should betray her low birth, 
but she waited in vain. 

Marian was perfectly ladylike in her manners ; her language 
was well chosen; her voice soft and low; and ere she had been 
with her half an hour, Ellen secretly acloiowledged her superi- 
ority to most of the young ladies of her acquaintance, and she 
half regretted that she, too, had not been educated at Mrs. 
Harcourt's school, if such manners as Miss Grey’s were com- 
mon there. 

At Mrs. Sheldon’s request, Marian took her seat at the 
piano, and then Ellen hoped to criticise; but here again she 
was at fault, for Marian was a brilliant performer, keeping 
prefect time, and playing with the most exquisite taste. 

As she was turning the leaves of the music book after the 
close of the first piece. Will said to his sister : 

^‘By the wall, Nell, I had a letter from Fred today, and he 
says he will be delighted to get you that music the first time 
he goes to the city.” 

Marian started just as she had done that afternoon when 
Mrs. Sheldon called her youngest boy Fred. Still, there was 


150 


MARIAN GREY 


no reason why she should do so. Frederic was a common 
name, and she kept on turning the leaves, while Ellen replied : 
"'What else did he write, and when is he going South?"' 

Marian’s hand was stayed now, and she listened eagerly for 
the answer, which was "Sometime in November, and he has 
invited me to go with him, but I hardly think I shall. He’s 
lonesome, he says, and can find no trace of his runaway wife. 
So, there’s the shadow of a chance for you, Nell.” 

The hand, which held the leaf suspended, came down with 
a crash upon the keys of the piano, but Ellen thought it was 
an accident, if she thought of it at all; and she replied : "Fie, 
Will, just as though I would have a man before I knew for 
certain that his wife was dead. I admire Mr. Raymond very 
much, and if he had not been so foolish as to marry that child, 
I can’t say that he would not have made an impression, for he 
is the finest-looking and most agreeable gentleman I ever met. 
Isn’t it strange where that girl went, and what she went for? 
Hasn’t he ever told you anything that would tend to explain 
it?” 

Up to this point Marian had sat immovable, listening 
eagerly and wondering where these people had known Fred* 
eric Raymond. Then, as something far back in the past 
flashed upon her mind, she turned, and looking in the young 
man’s face, knew who he was and that they had met before. 
His name had seemed familiar from the first, and she knew 
that he was the Will Gordon who had been Frederic’s chum 
in college, and had once spent a vacation at Redstone Hall. 
He had predicted that she would be a handsome woman, and 
Frederic had said she could not with such hair. She remem- 
bered it all distinctly, but any effect it might then have had 
upon her was lost in her anxiety to hear the answer to Ellen’s 
question. 

"Fred generally keeps his matters to himself, but I know as 
much as this : He didn’t love that Miss Lindsey any too well 
when he married her, but he has admitted to me since that his 
feelings toward her had undergone a change, and he would 
give almost an3rthing to find her. He is certain that she was 
with him when he was sick in New York, and since that time 
he has sought for her everywhere.” 

William Gordon had no idea of the effect his words pro- 
duced upon the figure which, on the music stool, sat as 
motionless as if it had been a block of marble. During all the 
long, dreary years of her exile from her home, there had not 
come to her so cheering a ray of hope as this, and the bright 
bloom deepened on her cheek, while the joy which danced in 


MARIAN GREY 


151 


her deep blue eyes made them look almost black beneath the 
heavy lashes. Frederic was beginning to love her — ^he had ac- 
knowledged as much to Mr. Gordon, and her heart bounded 
forward to the time when she should see him face to face, and 
hear him tell her so with his own lips. Little now she heeded 
Ellen’s next remark: “I presume it would be just the same 
even if he were to find her. He is a great admirer of beauty, 
and she, I believe, was very ordinary looking.’’ 

‘'Not remarkably so,” returned Will. “She was thin-faced 
and had red hair, but I remember thinking she might make a 
handsome woman — ” 

“With red hair ! Oh, Will !” and the black-tressed Ellen 
laughed at the very idea. 

A sudden movement on Marian’s part made Will recollect 
her, and he hastened to apologize for his apparent forgetful- 
ness of her presence. 

“You will please excuse us,” he said, “for discussing an 
affair in which you, of course, can have no interest.” 

“Certainly,” she replied, while around the corners of her 
mouth were little laughing dimples, which told no tales to the 
jroung man, who continued: “Will you give us some more 
music ? I admire your style of playing.” 

Marian was in a mood for anything, and turning to the 
piano she dashed off into a merry, spirited thing, to which 
Will’s feet kept time, while Ellen looked on amazed at the 
white fingers which flew like lightning over the keys, seem- 
ingly never resting for an instant upon any one of them, but 
lighting here and there with a rapidity she had never before 
seen equaled. It was the outpouring of Marian’s heart, and 
the tune she played was a song of jubilee for the glad tidings 
she had heard. Ere she had half finished, Will Gordon was 
at her side, gazing wonderingly into her face, which sparkled 
and glowed with her excitement. 

“She is strangely beautiful,” he thought, and so he said to 
Ellen when they were walking home together. 

“She looks very well,” returned Ellen, “but I trust you will 
not feel it your duty to fall in love with her on that account. 
Wouldn’t it be ridiculous, though, for you, who profess never 
to have felt the least affection for any woman, to yield at 
once to Mary’s governess ?” 

Will Gordon was older than Frederic Raymond, and an ex- 
amination of the family Bible would have shown him to be 
thirty. Quite a bachelor, his sister Ellen said, and she mar- 
veled that he had lived thus long without taking to himself a 
wife. But Will was very fastidious in his ideas of females. 


162 


MARIAN GREY 


and though he had traveled much, both in Europe and his own 
country, he had never seen a face which could hold his fancy 
for a moment, until the sunny, blue eyes of Marian Gray 
shone upon him and thawed the ice which had laid about his 
heart so many years. Even then he did not quite understand 
the feeling, or know why it was that night after night he 
found himself locked out at home, while morning after morn- 
ing his sister Ellen scolded him for staying out so late, won- 
dering what attraction he could find at Mary’s when he knew 
as well as she that he would never disgrace the Gordon family 
by marrying a governess, and a peddler’s adopted sister, too ! 
Will hardly thought he should either. He didn’t quite know 
what ailed him, and in a letter written to Frederic, who was 
now in Kentucky, he gave an analysis of his feelings, after 
having first told him that Marian Grey was the adopted sister 
of a Yankee peddler, who had once visited Redstone Hall, and 
who, he was sure, Frederic would remember for his oddities. 

^‘1 wish you could see this girl,” he wrote; ‘I’d like your 
opinion, for I know you are a connoisseur in everything per- 
taining to female charms, but I am sure you never in all your 
life saw anything like Marian Grey. I never did, and I have 
seen the proudest court beauties in Europe — but nobody like 
her. And yet it is not so much the exceeding fairness of her 
complexion, or the perfect regularity of her features, as it is 
the indescribably fascinating something which demands your 
pity as well as your admiration. There is that about her 
mouth, and in her smile, which seems to say that she has suf- 
fered as few have ever done, and that from this suffering she 
has risen purified, beautified, and if I may be allowed a term 
which my good mother would call wicked in the extreme, 
glorified, as it were ! 

“Just picture to yourself a graceful, airy figure, five feet 
four inches high — ^then clothe it in black, and adapt every 
article of dress exactly to her form and style, then imagine 
a rosebud face, which I cannot describe, with the deepest, 
saddest, brightest, merriest, sunniest, laughing blue eyes you 
ever saw. You see there is a slight contradiction of words, 
but every one by turns will apply to her eyes of blue. Then 
her hair — oh, Frederic, words fail me here. It’s a mixture of 
everything — brown, black, yellow, and red. Yes, red — I mean 
it, for it has decidedly a reddish hue in the sunshine. By gas- 
light it is brown, and by daylight a most beautiful chestnut or 
auburn — rippling all over her head in glossy waves, and curl- 
ing about her forehead and neck.” 

This letter reached Frederic one rainy afternoon, when he 


MARIAN GREY 


153 


had nothing to do but to read it, laugh over it, reflect upon 
and answer it. Will Gordon^s description of Marian Grey 
thrilled him with a strange feeling of pleasure, imperceptibly 
^ sending his thoughts after another Marian, and involuntarily 
I he said aloud: ‘'If she had been like this picture Will has 
I drawn, I should not be here so lonely and desolate.’' 

1 Frederic Raymond was prouder far than Will Gordon, and 
! his feelings at first rebelled against his friend’s taking for a 
j bride the sister of unpolished, uneducated Ben. “But it is his 
^ own matter,” he said; “I see plainly that he is in love, so I 
will write at once and tell him what is the ‘trouble.’ ” 



CHAPTER XVIII 

will’s wooing 

The silver tea set and damask cloth had been removed from 
Mrs. Gordon’s supper table. The heavy curtains of 
brocatelle were dropped before the windows; a cheerful fire 
was burning in the grate, for Mrs. Gordon eschewed both 
furnaces and stoves; the gas burned brightly in the chande- 
liers, casting a softened light throughout the room, and ren- 
dering more distinct the gay flowers on the carpet. The lady- 
mother, a fair type of a thrifty New England woman, had 
donned her spectacles, and from a huge pile of socks was 
selecting those which needed a near acquaintance with the 
needle, and lamenting over her son’s propensity of wearing 
out his toes ! 

The son, meantime, half lay, half sat upon the sofa, list- 
lessly drumming with his fingers, and feeling glad that Ellen 
was not there, and wondering how he should begin to tell his 
mother what he so much wished her to know. 

'T should suppose she might see it,” he thought, ‘^might 
know how much I am in love with Marian, for I used to be 
always talking about her, and now I never mention her, it 
makes my heart thump so if I try to speak her name. Nell 
will make a fuss, perhaps, for she thinks so much of family; 
but Marian is family enough for me. Mary likes her, and I 
guess mother does. I mean to ask her.” 

^‘Mother ?”^ 

‘What, William?” and the good lady ran her hand into a 
sock with a shockingly large rent in the heel. 

No woman can be very gracious with such an opening 
prospect, and, as Will saw the scowl on his mother’s 
face, he regretted that he had spoken at this inauspicious 
moment. 

‘T’ll wait till she finds one not quite so dilapidated as that,” 
he thought, and when the question was repeated, “What, Wil- 
liam?” he replied, “Is Nell coming home tonight?” 

“I believe so. I wish she was here now to help me, for I 
shall never get these mended. What makes you wear out your 
socks so fast?” 

“I don’t know. I’m sure, unless it’s beating time to Miss 
Marian Grey 155 


156 


MARIAN GREY 


Grey's lively music. Don’t she play like the mischief, 
though ?” 

Mrs. Gordon did not answer, and Will continued : 

^^Mother, how would you like to have me marry and settle 
down?” Will continued, after a moment’s silence, and his 
mother replied: 

‘Well enough, provided I liked your wife.” 

“You don’t suppose I’d marry one you didn’t like, I 
hope.” 

Taking Frederic’s letter from his pocket he passed it to his 
mother, asking her to read it, and give him her opinion of its 
contents. 

“You know I never can make out Mr. Raymond’s writing,” 
said Mrs. Gordon, “so pray read it yourself.” 

But this Will could not do, and he insisted until his mother 
took the letter and began to read. 

“Have you spoken to Marian ?” she asked, giving him back 
the letter, but not resuming her work. 

“No,” was his answer, and she continued: 

“Then I wouldn’t.” 

“Why not ?” he asked, in some alarm ; and with a tremor in 
her voice, his mother replied: 

“I’ve nothing against Marian, but we are so happy together, 
and it would kill me to have you go away.” 

“You charming woman,” cried Will, kissing his mother, 
whose consent he understood to be fully won. 

He knew she had always admired Miss Grey, but he ex- 
pected more opposition than this, and in his delight he would 
have gone to see Marian at once, were it not that he had heard 
she was absent that evening. For an hour or more he talked 
with his mother of his plans, and when at last Ellen came in 
she, too, was let into the secret. Of course, she rebelled at 
first, for her family pride was very strong, and the peddler 
Ben was a serious objection. But when she saw how earnest 
her brother was, and that her mother, too, had espoused his ~ 
cause, she condescended to say: 

“I suppose you might do worse, though folks will wonder 
at your taste in marrying Mary’s governess.” 

“Let them wonder, then,” said Will. “They dare not slight 
my wife, you know,” and then he drew a pleasing picture of 
the next summer, when his mother, Marian, Ellen, and he 
would visit the White Mountains and Montreal. 

“Why not go to Europe?” suggested Ellen. “Mr. Sheldon 
talks of going in August, and if you marry this ;sjirl, you may 
as well go. too.” 


MARIAN GREY 


157 


‘Well spoken for yourself, little puss,” returned Will; “but 
it’s a grand idea, and I’ll make arrangements with Tom as 
soon as I have seen Marian.” 

It was a long night to Will, and the next day longer still, 
for joyful hope and harrowing fears tormented his mind, and 
when at last it was dark, and he had turned his face toward 
Mr. Sheldon’s, he half determined to go back. But he didn’t, 
and with his usual easy, off-hand manner, he entered his 
sister’s sitting room. Though bound to secrecy, Ellen had told 
the news to Mrs. Sheldon, who, of course, had told her hus- 
band; and soon after Will’s arrival, the two found some ex- 
cuse for leaving him alone with Marian Grey. 

Marian like William Gordon very much — partly because he 
was Frederic’s friend, and partly because she knew him to be 
a most affectionate brother and dutiful son — ^two rare quali- 
ties in a traveled and fashionable man. 

She was always pleased to see him, and she welcomed him 
now as usual, without observing his evident embarrassment 
when at last they were alone. There were no stockings to be 
darned, and he did not know how to commence, until he re- 
membered Frederic’s letter. It had helped him with his 
mother — it might aid him now — and after fidgeting a while 
in his chair, he said: 

“I heard from Mr. Raymond yesterday.” 

“Indeed!” and Marian’s voice betrayed more interest than 
the word would indicate. 

“He wrote that you were engaged to him — ” 

“I engaged to Frederic Raymond 1” And Marian started so 
suddenly that she pulled her needle out from the worsted gar- 
ment she was knitting. 

“Engaged to teach, I mean,” returned Will. “I’ll show 
you what he wrote when you pick up those stitches.” 

“What did Mr. Raymond write of me?” Marian asked, as if 
only slightly interested. 

“I’ll show you just a little,” and Will pointed out the sen- 
tence commencing with “Give my respects to Miss Grey,” etc. 

The sight of the well-remembered handwriting affected 
Marian sensibly; but when she came to the last part, and be- 
gan to understand to what it all was tending, her head grew 
dizzy and her brain whirled for a moment. Then an intense 
pity for Will Gordon filled her soul, for looking upward she 
met the glance of his eyes, and saw therein how much she was 
beloved. 

“No, no, Mr. Gordon!” she cried, putting her hands to her 
ears as he began to say : “Dear Marian.” “You must not call 


158 


MARIAN GREY 


me so ; it is wicked for you to do it — wicked for me to listen. 
I am not what I seem.” 

Her not being what she seemed, he fancied might refer to 
something connected with her birth, and he hastened to assure 
her that no circumstance whatever could change his feelings, 
or prevent him from wishing her to be his wife. 

‘‘Won't you, Marian?” he said, holding her in his arm so 
she could not escape. “I have never lov^ before. I always 
said I could not, until I saw you; and then everything was 
changed. I have told my mother, darling, and Ellen, too. 
They are ready to receive you, if you will go. Look at me, 
and say you will come to my home, which will never again be 
so bright to me without you. Won’t my darling answer me ?” 
he continued, while she sobbed so violently as to render speak- 
ing impossible. ‘T am sorry if my words distressed you so,” 
he added, resting her head upon his bosom, and fondly 
smoothing her hair. 

am distressed for you,” Marian at last found voice to say. 
“Oh, Mr. Gordon, I should be most wretched if I thought I 
had encouraged you in this ! But I have not, I am sure. I 
like you very, very much, but I cannot be your wife!” 

“Marian, are you in earnest?” And on Will Gordon’s 
manly face was a look never seen there before. 

He did not know until now how much he loved the beautiful 
young girl he held so closely to his side. All the affections of 
his heart had centered themselves, as it were, upon her, and 
he could not give her up. She had been so kind to him — had 
welcomed him ever with her sweetest smile — ^had seemed sorry 
at his departure — and was not this encouragement? He had 
taken it as such, and ere she could reply to the question : 

“Are you in earnest?” he added: 

“I have thought, from your manner, that I was not indif^. 
ferent to you, else I had never told you of my love. Oh, 
Marian, if you desert me now, I shall wish that I could die !” 

Marian struggled until she released herself from his em- 
brace, and, standing before him, she replied: 

“I never dreamed that you thought of me, save as a friend, 
and if I have encouraged you, it was because — ^you reminded 
me of another. Oh, Mr. Gordon, must I tell you that long be- 
fore I came here, I had learned to love some other man — 
hopelessly, it is true, for he does not care for me ; but that can 
make no difference. Had I never seen him — never known of 
him — I might — I would have been your wife, for I know that 
you are noble and good; but ’tis too late — ^too late!” 

He did not need to ask her now if she were in earnest; for. 


MARIAN GREY 


159 


looking up into her truthful, dear, blue eyes, he knew there 
was no hope for him, and bowing his head upon the arm of 
the sofa, he groaned aloud, while the heaving of his chest 
showed how much he suffered, and how manfully he strove to 
keep his feelings down. Mournfully Marian gazed upon him, 
wishing she had never come there, if by coming she had 
brought this hour of anguish to him. Half timidly she laid 
her hand upon his head, for she wished to comfort him; and, 
as he felt the touch of her fingers, he started, while an ex- 
pression of joy lighted up his face, only to pass away again 
as he saw the same unloving look in her eyes. 

‘If I could comfort you,'' she said, “I would gladly do it; 
but I cannot. You will forget me in time, Mr. Gordon, and be 
as happy as you were before you knew me." 

He shook his head despairingly. “No one could forget you; 
and the man who stands between us must be a monster not to 
requite your love. Who is he, Marian, or is it not for me to 
know ?" 

“I would rather you should not — it can do no good," was 
Marian's reply; and then Will Gordon pleaded with her to 
think again ere she told him so decidedly no. She might out- 
live that other love. She ought to, certainly, if 'twere a hope- 
less one; and if she only gave him half a heart, he would be 
content until he won the whole. They would go to Europe 
m autumn; and beneath the sunny skies of Italy she would 
learn to love him, he knew. “Won’t you, Marian?" and in 
the tone of his voice there was a world of eager, fearful, 
yearning love. 

“I can't — I can't; it is utterly impossible!" was the decided 
answer; and, without another word. Will Gordon arose and 
passed, with a breaking heart, from the room he had entered 
so full of hope and pleasing anticipations. 

All this trouble and excitement wore upon Marian, and 
after a time she became too ill to leave her room, where she 
kept her bed, sometimes fancying it all a dream — sometimes re- 
solving to tell the people who she was, and always weeping 
over the grief she had brought to William Gordon, who, dur- 
ing her illness, showed how noble and good he was by caring 
for her as tenderly as if she had indeed been his promised 
bride. 

One night, toward the last of March, as he sat with his 
mother in the same room where he first told her of his love 
for Marian Grey, the door-bell rang, and a moment after, to 
his great surprise, Frederic Raymond walked into the room. 
William had forgotten what his friend had said about the pos- 


160 


MARIAN GREY 


sibility of his coming North earlier than usual, and he was so 
much astonished that for some moments he did not appear like 
himself. 

‘You know I wrote that business might bring me to Al- 
bany,'’ said Frederic, “and that if I came so far I should visit 
you." 

“Oh, yes, I remember now," returned William, the color 
mounting to his forehead, as he recalled the nature of the last 
letter written to Frederic, who, from his manner, guessed that 
something was wrong, and forbore questioning him until they 
retired to their room for the night. 

“Fred," said William, after they had talked a while on in- 
different subjects, “Fred," and Will's feet went up into a 
chair, for even a man who has been refused feels better with 
his heels a little elevated, “Fred, it's all over with me; and it 
makes no difference now whether the sun rises in the east or 
in the west." 

“I suspected as much," returned Frederic, “from your fail- 
ure to write and from the length of your face. What is the 
matter? You didn’t coax hard enough, I reckon, and I shall 
have to undertake it for you. How would you like that? I 
dare say I should be more successful," and Frederic's smile 
was much like the Frederic of other days, when he and Will 
were college friends together. 

“I said everything man could say, but the chief difficulty is 
that she doesn’t love me, and does love another," returned 
Will, at the same time repeating to his companion as much of 
his experience as he thought proper. 

“A discouraging beginning, I must confess," said Frederic, 
*‘but perhaps she will relent." 

“No, she won’t,” returned Will; “she is just as decided 
now as she was that night. I have exhausted all my persua- 
sion, mother has coaxed, so has Mary, so has Nell, and all to 
no purpose. Marian Grey can never be my wife. If it were 
not for this other love, though, I would not give it up." 

“Who is the favored one?’' Frederic asked, and his friend 
replied : 

“Some rascal, I dare say, for she says it is a hopeless at- 
tachment on her part, and that makes it all the worse. Now, 
if I knew the man was worthy of her, I should not feel so 
badly. If it were you, for instance, or somebody like you, I'd 
try to be satisfied, knowing she was quite as well off as she 
would be with me," and Will's feet went up to the top of the 
chair as he thought how magnanimous he would be were it 
Frederic Raymond who was beloved by Marian Grey. 


MARIAN GREY 


161 


am sorry for you/* said Frederic, ‘‘sorry that you, too, 
must walk under a cloud, as I am doing. We little thought, 
when we were boys, that we should both be called to bear a 
heavy burden ; but thus has it proved. Mine came sooner than 
yours, and it seems to me *tis the harder of the two to 
bear.** 

“Fred, you don*t know what you are saying. Your grief 
cannot be as great as mine, for I love Marian Grey as man 
never loved before; and when she told me ‘no,* and I knew she 
meant it, I felt as if she were tearing out my very heart- 
strings. You acknowledge that you never loved your wife; 
but you married her for — I don’t know what you married her 
for — ** 

“For money !** And the words dropped slowly from Fred- 
eric’s lips. 

“For money?” repeated Will. “She had no money — ^this 
Marian Lindsey. She was a poor orphan, I always thought. 
Will you tell me what you mean?” 

“I have never told a living being why I made that girl my 
wife,” said Frederic ; “but I can trust you, I know, and I have 
sometimes thought I would feel better if someone shared my 
secret. Still, I would rather not explain to you how Marian 
was the heiress of Redstone Hall, for that concerns the dead; 
but heiress she was, not only of all that, but of all the lands 
and houses said to belong to the Raymonds* estate in Ken- 
tucky; not a cent of it was mine; and, rather than give it up, 
I married her without one particle of love — married her, too, 
when she did not know of her fortune, but supposed herself 
dependent upon me.” 

“If you knew that she was dead, would you marry Isabel?* 
asked Will. And Frederic replied: 

“Never !** 

Then, in a reverent tone, as if speaking of one above him in 
purity and innocence, he told how the little blind girl had 
stood between him and temptation, holding up his hands when 
they were weakest, and keeping his feet from falling. 

“But that desire is over. I can look Isabel Huntington 
calmly in the face, and experience no sensation, save that of 
relief, to think I have escaped her. With the legacy left her 
by Mr. Rivers, and the little means her mother had, she 
bought a small house near Riverside ; so I shall have them for 
neighbors every summer. But I do not care. I have no love 
now for Isabel. It all died out when I was sick, and centered 
itself upon that little sweet-faced girl, who, I know, was 
Marian, though I cannot find her. If I could, Will, I’d will- 


162 


MARIAN GREY 


ihgly part with every cent of money I call mine, and work for 
my daily bread. Labor would not seem a hardship, if I 
knew that when my toil was done, there was a darling wife 
waiting for me at hcwne.^^ 


CHAPTER XIX 


THE BIRTHDAY 

Mrs. Gordon's breakfast bell rang several times next morn- 
ing ere the young men made their appearance, for, as a nat- 
ural consequence, the late hours of the previous night had 
been followed by protracted slumbers. As they were making 
their hasty toilet, Frederic said to Will: 

*This is Marian's twentieth birthday.” 

'Ts it possible!” returned Will. ‘Tt seems but yesterday 
since I saw her, a little girl in pantalets, with long curls 
streaming down her back.” 

When breakfast was over, the young men started for a walk 
downtown, going by Mrs. Sheldon's house, of course, al- 
though it was entirely out of their way; but neither thought of 
this, and they passed it on the opposite side of the street, so 
that Will could, unobserved, point out Marian’s room to 
Frederic. 

‘‘That's it,” he said, “the one with the blinds open. There 
she has often sat, I suppose, thinking of the villain who stands 
between me and happiness. The rascal ! I tell you, Fred, I 
wish I had him as near to me as you are !” And Will Gordon 
fancied how, in such a case, he would treat a rnan who did 
not love Marian Grey. 

Frederic made no answer, for his eyes were fixed intently 
upon the window, hoping to catch a glimpse of one who was 
fast becoming an object of interest even to him; but he looked 
in vain, for Marian had not yet arisen. Pale, weary, and 
weak, she reclined among her pillows, her fair hair falling 
about her face in beautiful disorder, and her eyes turned also 
toward the window — not because she knew that Frederic was 
looking in that direction, but because the morning sun was 
shining there, and she was watching it as it danced upon the 
curtain of bright crimson. 

“I have seen the suns of twenty years,” she thought, “and 
I am growing old so fast. I wonder if Frederic would know 
me now?” 

At this moment Mrs. Sheldon came in, and advancing to- 
ward the window, looked down into the street. Catching a 
view of her brother and his friend, she exclaimed : 

Marian Grey 163 


164 


MARIAN GREY 


“Frederic Raymond! I wonder when he came?’^ 

“What I — where — who is it ?'’ Marian asked quickly, at the 
same time raising herself upon her elbow, and looking wist- 
fully in the direction Frederic had gone. 

“Mr. Raymond, Will's friend, from Kentucky," returned 
Mrs. Sheldon. “He must have come last night," and as little 
Fred just then called to her from without, she left the room. 

When she was alone, Marian buried her face in the bed- 
clothes, and murmured: 

“Oh, if I could only see him! I long so to test his powers 
of recognition, and see if he would know me." 

She almost hoped he would, and so claim her for his wife, 
as this, she fancied, might cure Will Gordon sooner than 
aught else which could be done. She was sure they would talk 
of her, for Frederic had bidden Will propose, and he would 
naturally ask the result of that proposal. Will would say she 
had refused him because she loved another, and would not 
something whisper to her husband that “the other" was him- 
self — ^that Marian Grey was his Marian — the Marian of Red- 
stone Hall — and he would come to her that very day, perhaps, 
and all the morning she waited anxiously for a step she was 
certain she would know, though it might not be as elastic and 
bounding as of old, ere she had trammeled it with a heavy 
weight. She listened nervously for the full, rich tones, ask- 
ing for her, in the parlor below. But she listened in vain, and 
the restless excitement brought on a severe headache, which 
rendered it impossible for her to leave the room, even if he 
came. This Mrs. Sheldon greatly lamented, for she had in- 
vited the young men to tea, and while accepting her invitation, 
Will had asked if Miss Grey would not be able to spend a 
part of the evening with them. 

“She is to be Fred's governess, you know," he said, “and 
he naturally wishes to make her acquaintance." 

This request Mrs. Sheldon made known to Marian, who 
asked, eagerly, if “tomorrow would not do as well?" 

“It might," returned Mrs. Sheldon, “were it not that he 
leaves on the early train." 

When alone again with Will, in the chamber of the latter, 
Frederic broached the subject, asking his companion if he 
thought there was any probability of Miss Grey's disappoint- 
ing him. 

“I mean to write her a note," he said, and sitting down by 
Will's writing desk he took up a sheet of gilt-edged paper and 
commenced, “My dear Marian." 

“Pshaw!" he exclaimed, “what am I thinking about?" and 


MARIAN GREY 


165 


tearing up the sheet he threw it into the grate and commenced 
again, addressing her this time as ^^Miss Grey/' 

He considered her services engaged to himself, he said, and 
should expect her at Riverside early in September. She could 
come sooner if she liked, for Mrs. Jones was to leave the first 
of August. 

‘‘That Europe trip may tempt her," he thought, and he 
added: ‘T am glad to learn from Mrs. Sheldon that you are 
so proficient in German and French, for I have serious 
thoughts of visiting the Old World myself ere long, and as 
Alice, of course, will go with me, we shall prize your company 
all the more on account of these accomplishments." 

This note he gave to Will, who said : ‘Terhaps I shall try 
again, and if I succeed, I suppose you will give her up to me." 

“Yes," answered Frederic, “Fll give way for Will Gordon's 
wife, but for no one else," and there the conversation ceased 
concerning Marian Grey; nor was it resumed again, for early 
the next morning he started for New York, as he intended 
stopping at Riverside ere he returned to Kentucky. 

True to his trust, Will gave the note to Marian the first 
time he met her, after she was well enough to come down- 
stairs as usual. 

“It is from Mr. Raymond," he said, and Marian's face was 
scarlet as she took it and looked into his eyes with an eager, 
searching glance, to see if he knew her secret. 

But he did not, and with spirits which began to ebb, she 
broke the seal and read the few brief lines, half smiling as 
she thought how very formal and businesslike they were. But 
it was Frederic's handwriting, and when sure Will did not see 
her she pressed it to her lips. 

“What you do that for?" asked little Fred, whose sharp 
eyes saw everything not intended for him to see. 

“Sh — sh," said Marian ; but the child persisted. “Say, what 
you tiss that letter for ?" 

Will Gordon was standing with his back to her, but at this 
strange question, he turned quickly and fastened his eyes on 
Marian's face, as if he would fathom her inmost soul. 

“There's something there," she said, passing the note again 
over her lips as if she would brush the “something" away. 

This explanation was wholly satisfactory to Fred, who, 
with childish simplicity asked : “Did you get it ?" 

But Will was not quite certain, and for several days he 
puzzled his brain with wondering whether Marian Grey really 
did kiss Frederic Raymond's note or not. If so, why did she? 

Very rapidly the spring passed away, enlivened once by a 


166 


MARIAN GREY 


short visit from Ben, who, having purchased an entire new 
suit of clothes for the occasion, looked and appeared unusually 
well, talking but little until he was alone with Marian, when 
his tongue was loosed, and he told her all he had to tell. 

He had been to Riverside, he said, and Mrs. Russell, who 
was still there and was to be the future housekeeper, was very 
gracious to him on account of his being the adopted brother 
of their next governess, Miss Grey. 

‘^She showed me your chamber,'' said he, ^^and it's the very 
one they fixed up so nice for Isabel. Nobody has ever used 
it, for Miss Jones slep' in a little room at the end of the hall. 
Frederic has had a door cut from Alice's chamber into yourn, 
'cause he said how't you and she would want to be near to 
each other, he knew. And I tell you what, when you git there, 
it seems to me you'll be as nigh heaven as you'll ever git in 
this world. Mrs. Huntington has bought a little cottage close 
by Frederic's," he continued, ^^and she's livin' there with 
Isabel, who has got to be an heir — " 

^'An heiress!" repeated Marian. 'Whose, pray?" 

"Don't know," returned Ben, "only that old man she went to 
Florida with is dead, and he willed her some. I don't know 
how much, but law, she'll spend it in no time." 

Once Marian thought to tell him of William Gordon's un- 
fortunate attachment, particularly as he was loud in his 
praises of the young man ; but upon second reflections she de- 
cided to keep that matter to herself, hoping that the subject 
would never be mentioned to her again. 

Mr. and Mrs. Sheldon were going to Europe. They would 
sail in about two weeks, and as Marian had positively declined 
to accompany them, they had engaged another governess, 
who was to meet them in New York. It was decided that 
Marian should remain a few days with Mrs. Gordon, and then 
go to Riverside, where her coming was anxiously expected 
both by Frederic and Alice. This arrangement was highly 
satisfactory to Will, who anticipated much happiness in hav- 
ing her wholly to himself for a week. There would be no 
Sister Ellen, with curious, prying eyes, for she was going 
with Mrs. Sheldon as far as New York — no little girl always 
in the way — no funny Fred, to see and tell ever)dhing — no- 
body, in short, but his good mother, whom he knew would 
often leave him alone with Marian. 

During his absence from home he had thought much upon 
the subject, and had resolved to make one more trial at least. 
She might be eventually won, and if so, he should care but 
little for the efforts made to win her. With this upon his 


MARIAN GR^Y 


167 


mind, he felt rather relieved than otherwise when the family 
at last were gone, and Marian was an inmate of his mother’s 
house. Both Mr. and Mrs. Sheldon had urged him to accom- 
pany them, and he had made arrangements to do so in case he 
found Marian still firm in her refusal. They were intending 
to stop for a few days in New York, and he could easily join 
them the day on which the boat was advertised to sail. He 
should know his fate before that time, he thought, and he 
strove in various ways to obtain an interview with Marian, 
who, divining his intention, was unusually reserved in her de- 
meanor toward him, and if by chance she found herself with 
him alone, she invariably framed some excuse to leave the 
room, so that Will began at last to lose all hope, and to think 
seriously of joining his sister as the surest means of for- 
getting Marian Grey. 

‘^She does not care for me,’’ he said to his mother, one night 
after Marian had retired. ‘T believe she rather dislikes me 
than otherwise. I think on the whole I shall go, and if so, I 
must start in the morning, for the vessel sails tomorrow 
night.” 

To this his mother made no objection, for though she would 
be very lonely without him, she was accustomed to rely upon 
herself, so she rather encouraged him than otherwise, thinking 
it would do him good. Accordingly, next morning, when 
Marian came down to breakfast, she was surprised to hear of 
Will’s intended departure. 

Breakfast being over, there remained to Will but half an 
hour, and as a part of this was necessarily spent with the serv- 
ants, and in preparations for his journey, he had at the last 
but a few moments in which to say his farewell words to 
Marian. She was in the back parlor, his mother said, and 
there he found her weeping, for she felt that her friends were 
leaving her one by one, and though in a few days she was go- 
ing back to her husband and her home, she knew not what the 
result would be. Will’s sudden determination to visit Europe 
affected her unpleasantly, for she felt that she was in some 
way connected with it, and she was conscious of a feeling of 
loneliness such as she had not experienced before since she 
first came to Mrs. Sheldon’s. 

“Are you weeping ?” asked Will, when he saw her with her 
head bowed down upon the arm of the sofa. 

Marian did not answer, and with newly awakened hope 
Will drew nearer and seated himself beside her. 

“It might be that he was mistaken, after all,” he thought. 
“Her tears would seem to indicate as much. Girls were 


168 


MARIAN GREY 


strange beings, everybody said,” and passing his arm around 
the weeping Marian, he whispered : “Do you like me, then ?” 

“Yes, very, very much,” she answered, “and now that you 
are going away, and I may never see you again, I am so sorry 
I ever caused you a moment's pain.” 

“I needn’t go, Marian,” William said, drawing her close to 
him, “I will stay, oh, so gladly, if you bid me do so. But it 
must be for you. Shall I, Marian? May I stay?” 

And again Will Gordon poured into her ears deep, burning 
words of love — entreating her to be his wife — ^to forget that 
other love so unworthy of her, and to give herself to him, who 
would cherish her so tenderly. Then he told her how the 
thought that she did not love him had made him go away, 
when he would so much rather remain where she was, if he 
could know she wished it. 

“Answer me, Marian,” he said, “for time hastens, and if 
you tell me no, I must be gone. Never man loved and wor- 
shiped his wife as I will love and worship you. Speak, and 
tell me yes.” 

Will paused for her reply, and, looking into her face, which 
she had turned toward him, he thought he read a confirmation 
of his hopes ; but the first words she uttered wrung his heart 
with cruel disappointment. 

“I cannot be your wife,” she said. “I mean it, Mr. Gordon 
— I cannot; and, oh, it would be wicked not to tell you. Can 
I trust you ? Will you keep my secret safe, as I have kept it 
almost six long years ?” 

There was some inseparable barrier between them, and 
William Gordon felt it, as, trembling in e.very limb, he an- 
swered : 

“Whatever you intrust to me shall not be betrayed.” 

“Then listen,” she said, “and say if you will bid me marry 
you. I told you I was not what I seemed, and I am not. 
People, perhaps, call me young, but to myself I seem old; I 
have suffered so much, and all my womanhood has been 
wasted, as it were, in tears. I told you once that before 
coming here I had given to another the love for which you 
sued, and I told you truly; but, Mr. Gordon, there was more 
to tell ; that other one, who loves me not, or who, if he does, 
has never manifested it to me by word or deed, is my own 
husband !” 

“Oh, Marian, Marian, this is indeed death itself !” groaned 
Will, for, though she had said there was no hope, it seemed to 
him now that he had never believed or realized it, as when he 
heard the dreadfal words — “my own husband.” 


MARIAN GREY 


169 


‘'Do not despise me for deceiving you,” Marian continued. 
“If I had thought you could have seen aught to desire in me — 
a poor, humble girl, I might, perhaps, have warned you in 
time, though how could I tell you, a stranger, that I was an 
unloved wife?” 

“Where is be — ^that man ?” Will asked, for he could not say 
“your husband,” and his lips quivered with something akin 
to the pain one feels when he hears the cold earth rattling into 
the grave where he has buried his fondest pride. 

Marian’s confession was a deathblow to all Will had dared 
to hope, and he asked for the husband more as a matter of 
form than because he really cared to know. 

“Mr. Gordon,” said Marian, rising to her feet and standing 
with her face turned fully toward him, “must I tell you more ? 
I thought I needed only to speak of a husband and you would 
guess the rest. Don’t you know me? Have we never met 
before ?” 

Wistfully, anxiously, William gazed at her, scanning her 
features one by one, while a dim vision of something back in 
the past floated before him, but assumed no tangible form, 
and, shaking his head, he answered : 

“Never to my knowledge.” 

“Look again. Is not my face a familiar one? Did you 
never see it before? Not here — not in New England — but 
far away, where the summer comes earlier and the winter is 
not so long. Is there not something about me — something 
about my person, or my voice, which carries you back to an 
old house on the river where you once met a little curly-haired 
girl?” 

She did not need to say more. Little by little it had come 
to him, and, starting to his feet, he caught her hand, exclaim- 
ing: 

“Great Heaven! The lost wife of Frederic Raymond!” 

“Yes,” she answered, “the lost Marian of Redstone Hall,” 
and leaning her head upon his arm, she burst into tears, for 
he seemed to her like a brother now, while she to him — 

He could not think of her as a sister yet — he loved her too 
well for that ; but still his feelings toward her had changed in 
the great shock with which he recognized her. She could 
never be his Marian, he knew, neither did he desire it. And 
for a moment he stood speechless, wholly overwhelmed with 
astonishment and wonder. Then he said : 

“Marian Raymond, why are you here?” 

“Why!” she repeated bitterly. “You may well ask why. 
Hated by him who should care for me, what could I do but 


170 


MARIAN GREY 


go away into the unknown world and throw myself upon its 
charities, which in my case have not been cold or selfish. 
Heaven bless the noble-hearted Ben, and the sainted woman, 
his mother, who didn't cast me off when I went to them, 
homeless, friendless, and heartbroken/' 

In her excitement Marian clasped her hands together, and 
the blue of her eyes grew deeper, darker, as she paid this 
tribute of gratitude to those who had been her friends 
indeed. Involuntarily, Will Gordon, too, responded to the 
words : 

''God bless the noble-hearted Ben," for, looking at the beau- 
tiful girl before him, he felt that what she was she owed to 
the self-denying, unwearied efforts of the uncultivated but 
generous Ben. 

"Marian," he said again, "you must go home. Go to your 
husband. He is waiting for you. He has sought for you 
long; he has expiated his sin. Go, Marian, go — " 

"I am going," she answered, "and if I only knew he wanted 
me — wanted his wife — " 

"He does want you," interrupted Will. "He has told me so 
many a time." 

Marian was about to reply, when Mrs. Gordon appeared, 
warning her son that the carriage was at the door ; and with a 
hurried farewell to Marian and his mother. Will hastened off, 
whispering to the former: 

"I shall write to you when on the sea — " 

"And keep my secret safe. I would rather divulge it my- 
self," she added. 

He nodded in the affirmative, and was soon on his way to 
the depot, so bewildered with what he had heard that he 
scarcely knew whether it were reality or a dream. Gradually, 
however, it became clear to him, and he remembered many 
things which confirmed the strange story he had heard. 

Greatly he wished to write to Frederic and tell him that 
Marian Grey was his wife, but he would not break his prom- 
ise, and he was wondering how he could hasten the discovery, 
when, as the cars left the depot at Hartford, a broad hand 
was laid upon his shoulder, and a voice which sounded 
familiar, said: 

"Wall, captain, bein’ we’re so full, I guess you’ll have to 
make room for me, or else I’ll have to set with that gal whose 
hoops take up the hull concern." 

"Ben Butterworth !" Will exclaimed, turning his face to- 
ward the speaker, who recognized him at once. 

"W'^all," he began, as he took the seat Will readily shared 


MARIAN GREY 


171 


with him, didn’t s’pose ’twas you. How do you do, and 
how’s Marian? Has she gone to Riverside yet?” 

^^No,” returned Will, and looking Ben directly in the face, 
he continued: ‘‘How much of Miss Grey’s history do you 
know ?” 

“Mor’n I shall tell you. I’ll bet. How much do you know ?” 
and Ben set his hat a little more on one side of his head. 

“More than you suppose, perhaps,” returned Will. “And 
if you, too, are posted, I’d like to talk the matter over; but 
if not, I shall betray no secrets.” 

“I swan, I b’lieve you do know,” said Ben. “Did she tell 
you ?” 

Will nodded, and Ben continued: 

“She wrote to me that you knew Mr. Raymond, and liked 
him, too; I guess he ain’t a very bad chap, after all, is 
he?” 

The ice was fairly broken now, and both Will and Ben 
settled themselves for a long conversation. Will did not think 
it betrayed Marian’s confidence to talk of her with one who 
understood her affairs so much better than himself, and, ere 
they reached New York, he had heard the whole story — heard 
how Ben had stumbled upon her in New York, and taken her 
to his home without knowing aught of her, except that she 
was friendless and alone — ^how the mother, now resting in her 
grave, had cared for the orphan girl, and how Ben, too, had 
done for her what he could. 

“ ’Twan’t much, anyway,” he said, “and I never minded it 
an atom, for ’twas a pleasure to ’arn money for her schoolin’.” 

And Ben spoke truly, for it never occurred to him that he 
had denied himself as few men would have done — toiling early 
and late, through sunshine and storm, wearing the old coat 
long after it was threadbare, and sometimes, when peddling, 
eating but two meals a day, by way of saving for Marian. Of 
all this he did not speak to his companion. He did not even 
think of it, or, if he did, he felt that he was more than paid 
in seeing Marian what she was. Accidentally, he said that his 
name was really Ben Burt, and that he should be glad when 
the time came for him to be called thus again. 

“When will that be?” asked Will, and Ben replied by un- 
folding to him his long-cherished plan of having Frederic 
make love to his own wife. 

“You might write to him, I s’pose,” he said, “but that would 
spile all my fun, and I’d rather let the thing work itself out. 
He’s bound to fall in love with her. He can’t help it, and I 
don’t see how you could. Mabby you did,” and Ben’s gray 


172 


MARIAN GREY 


eyes looked quizzically at his companion, who colored deeply 
as he replied merely to the first part of Ben's remark. 

‘‘I certainly will not interfere in the matter, though before 
meeting you I was wondering how I could do so, and not be- 
tray Marian's confidence. I am sure now it will all come right 
at last, and you ought to be permitted to bring it around in 
your own way, for you have been a true friend to her, and I 
dare say she loves you as a brother." 

This was touching Ben on a tender spot, for his old affec- 
tion for Marian was not quite dead yet, and Will's last words 
brought back to him memories of those dreary winter nights, 
when in his way he had battled with the love he knew he 
must not cherish for Marian Grey. He fidgeted in his seat, 
got up and looked under him, sat down again, and looked out 
of the window, and repeated to himself a part of the multipli- 
cation table by way of keeping from crying. 

‘‘Bless her, she's an angel," he managed at last to say, add- 
ing, as he met the inquiring glance of Will: “It's my mis- 
fortin' to be oncommon tender-hearted, and when I git to 
thinkin’ of somethin' that concerns nobody but me, I can't keep 
from cryin' no way you can fix it," and two undeniable tears 
rolled down his cheeks and dropped from the end of his nose. 

“He, too," sighed Will Gordon, and as he thought how 
much more the uncouth man beside him had done for Marian 
Grey than either Frederic or himself, and that he really had 
the greatest claim to her gratitude and love, his heart warmed 
toward Yankee Ben as to a long-tried friend, and he resolved 
to leave for him a substantial token of his regard. 

“Why don't you settle down as a grocer in some small 
country town ?" he asked as they came near the city. 

“I have thought of that," said Ben, “for I’m gettin' kinder 
tired travelin' now that their ain’t no home for me to go once 
in so often. I think I should like to be a groceryman first 
rate, and weigh out saleratus and bar soap to the old women. 
Wouldn't they flock in, though, to see me, I'm so odd ! But 
'tain't no use to think on't, for I hain’t the money now, though 
mabby I shall have it bimeby. My expenses ain't as great as 
they was." 

By this time they had reached the depot, and Will, who 
knew they must part there, said to him : 

“How long do you stay in New York?" 

“Not long,” returned Ben. “I've only come to recruit my 
stock a little.” 

“Go to the post office before you leave," was Will's reply, 
as he stepped from the platform and was lost in the crowd. 


MARIAN GREY 


173 


‘What did he mean?^’ thought Ben. “Nobody writes to 
me but Marian, and I ain't expectin' nothin' from her, but I 
guess I may as well go." 

Accordingly, the next night, when Will Gordon, with little 
Fred in his arms, was looking out upon the sea, Ben wended 
his way to the office, inquiring first for Ben Butterworth and 
then for Ben Burt. There was a letter for the latter, and it 
contained a draft for three hundred dollars, together with the 
following lines: 

“You and I have suffered alike, and in each of our hearts 
there is a hidden grave. I saw it in the tears you shed when 
talking to me of Marian Grey. Heaven bless you, Ben Burt, 
for all you have been to her. She is one of the fairest, best 
of God's creation, but she was not meant for you nor me; and 
we must learn to go our way without her. You have done 
for her more, perhaps, than either Mr. Raymond or myself 
would have done in the same circumstances, and thus far you 
are more worthy of her esteem. You will please accept the 
inclosed as a token that I appreciate your self-denying labors 
for Marian Grey. Use it for that grocery we talked about, if 
you choose, or for any purpose you like. If you have any 
delicacy just consider it a loan to be paid when you are a 
richer man than I am. You cannot return it, of course, for 
when you receive it I shall be gone. 

“Yours, in haste, 

“William Gordon." 

This letter was a mystery to Ben, who read it again and 
again, dwelling long upon the words, “You and I have suf- 
fered alike, and in each of our hearts there is a hidden grave." 

“That hits me exactly," he said, “though I never thought 
of callin' that hole in my heart a grave — but 'tain't nothin' 
else, for I buried somethin' in it, and the tender, brotherly 
feelin' I’ve felt for Marian ever since was the gravestun I 
set up in memory of what had been. But what does he know 
about it, though why shouldn't he, for no mortal man can look 
in Marian's face and not feel kinder cold and hystericky-like 
at the pit of his stomach! Yes, he’s in love with her, and 
that's the way she came to tell who she was. Poor Bill 1 Poor 
Bill I I know how to pity him to a dot," and Ben heaved a 
deep sigh as he finished this long soliloquy. 

The money next diverted his attention, but no puzzling on 
his part could explain to him satisfactorily why it had been 
sent. 


174 


MARIAN GREY 


‘‘S'posin' he was grateful,” he said, “he needn’t give me 
three hundred dollars for nothin’, but, bein’ he has, I may as 
well use it to start in business, though I shall pay it back, of 
course,” and when alone in his room at the hotel where he 
stopped, he wrote upon a bit of paper ; 

“New York, August 30, 18 — . 

“For vally rec. I promise to pay Bill Gordon, or bearer, the 
sum of three hundred dollars yrith use from date. 

“Benjamin Burt.” 

This note he put carefully away in his old leathern wallet, 
where it was as safe and as sure of being paid as if it had 
been in William Gordon’s hands instead of his. 

Meantime Marian at Mrs. Gordon’s was half regretting that 
she had told her secret to William, and greatly lamenting that 
they had been interrupted ere she knew just how much Fred- 
eric wished to find her. That his feelings toward her had 
changed, of course, she was sure, but she would know by 
word and deed that he loved her ere she revealed herself to 
him, and the dark mystery of that cruel letter must be ex- 
plained before she could respect him as she had once done. 
And now but a few days remained ere she should see him face 
to face, for she was going to Riverside very soon. Some ac- 
quaintances of hers were going West by way of New York, 
and she decided to accompany them, though by so doing she 
would reach Riverside one day earlier than she was expected. 

“It would make no difference, of course,” she said, and she 
waited impatiently for the appointed morning. 

It came at last, and long before the hour of starting she 
was ready, the dancing joy in her eyes, and her apparent 
eagerness to go being sadly at variance with the expression 
of Mrs. Gordon’s face, for the good lady loved the gentle girl 
and grieved to part with her. 

“I am sorry to leave you,” Marian said when the last 
moment came, “but I am so glad I am going, too; sometime, 
perhaps, you may know why, and then you will not blame me.” 

She could not shed a tear, although she had become 
greatly attached to her Springfield home, and her excitement 
continued unabated until she reached New York, where they 
stopped for the night. There were several hours of daylight, 
and, stealing away from her friends she took a Third Avenue 
car and went up to their old house where strangers were 
living now. She did not care to go in, for the dingy, uncur- 
tained windows looked far from inviting, and she passed 


MARIAN GREY 


175 


slowly down the other side of the street, musing upon all that 
had passed since the night when she first climbed those nar- 
row stairs, and asked a mother’s care from Mrs. Burt. She 
did not think then that she would ever be as happy as she 
was today, with the uncertainty of meeting Frederic to- 
morrow. It seemed a great while to wait, and as Ben had 
once numbered the weeks in seven years, so she now counted 
the hours which must elapse ere she felt the pressure of 
Frederic’s hand — for he would shake hands with her, of 
course, and he would look into her face, for he had heard 
much of her both from Will Gordon and Ben. Would he be 
disappointed? Would he think her pretty? Would he know 
her ? And Alice — what would she say ? Marian dreaded this 
test more than all the rest, for she felt that there was danger 
in the instinct of the blind girl. Slowly she retraced her 
steps, and, returning to the Hotel Astor, sought her own room, 
informing her friends that she was weary and would rest. 

‘Tive hours more,” was her first thought when she awoke 
next morning from a sounder sleep than she had supposed it 
possible to enjoy when under such excitement. Ere long it 
was four hours more, then three, then two, then one, and then 
the cars stopped at the depot at Yonkers. Two trunks marked 
“M. G.” stood upon the platform, and near them a figure in 
black bowing to her friends who leaned from the car window, 
and holding in her hands a satchel, a silk umbrella, two 
checks, her purse, and a book, for Marian possessed the weak- 
ness of her sex, and in traveling always carried the usual 
amount of baggage. 

‘To Riverside,” she said, when asked where she wished to 
go, and she looked about as if half expecting to see a familiar 
face. 

But she looked in vain, and in a few moments she was com- 
fortably seated in the lumbering stage which once before had 
carried her up that long hill. Eagerly she strained her eyes 
to catch the first view of the house; and when at last it came 
in sight, she was too intent upon it to observe the showily- 
dressed young lady tripping along upon the walk, and holding 
her skirts with her thumb and finger so as to show her dainty 
slippers. 

But if Marian did not see Isabel, Isabel saw her. It was 
not usual for the stage to come up at that hour of the day, 
and as it passed her by Isabel turned to see where it was go» 
ing. 

“To Riverside,” she exclaimed, as she saw it draw up to the 
gate. “It must be the new governess,” and as there was no 


176 


MARIAN GREY 


house very near, she stopped to inspect the stranger as well as 
she could at that distance. ‘^Black,’^ she said, as Marian 
stepped upon the ground; ‘^but I might have known it, for 
regular built teachers always wear black, I believe. She is 
rather tall, too. An umbrella, of course. I wonder she hasn’t 
her blanket shawl and overshoes this hot day. Her bonnet is 
pretty, and that hem in her veil very wide. On the whole, 
she’s quite genteel for a governess,” and Isabel walked on 
while Marian went up the graveled walk, expecting at each 
step to meet with either Frederic or Alice. 

Going up to the door she resolutely pulled the silver knob. 
The loud, sharp ring made her heart beat violently, and when 
she heard a heavy tread, not unlike a man’s, coming up the 
basement stairs, she thought: ‘What if it is Frederic him- 
self? What shall I say?” 

‘Tt is Frederic,” she continued, as the step came nearer, and 
she was wishing she could run away and hide when the door 
was opened by Mrs. Russell, her feet encased in a pair of Mr. 
Raymond’s cast-off shoes, which accounted for her heavy 
tread, and herself looking a little crestfallen at the sight of 
her visitor, whom she recognized at once. 

“Miss Grey, I b’lieve?” she said, dropping a low courtesy. 
“We wa’n’t expecting you till tomorrow; but walk in and 
make yourself at home. You’ll want to go to your room, I 
s’pose. Traveled all night, didn’t you? You look pale, and I 
wouldn’t wonder if you wanted to sleep most of the day. I 
never thought of such a thing as your cornin’ this mornin’. 
Dear me! what shall I do?” 

This was said in an undertone, but it caught the ear of 
Marian, who, now that she had a chance to speak, asked for 
Mr. Raymond timidly, as if fearful that with his name her 
secret might slip out. 

“Bless you!” returned Mrs. Russell, “both of ’em went to 
New York early this morning, and won’t be home till dark, 
maybe, and that’s why I feel so. I don’t know how to enter- 
tain you as they do; and Miss Alice has been reckoning on 
giving you a good impression. I’m so sorry you’ve — they’ve 
gone, I mean. I wa’n’t expecting to get any dinner today, and 
was havin’ such a nice time sewin’ on my dress”; and, with 
the last, the whole cause of the old lady’s uneasiness was di- 
vulged. 

In the absence of Frederic and Alice, she had counted upon 
a day of leisure, which Marian’s arrival had seriously inter- 
rupt^. 

“I beg you not to trouble yourself for me,” said Marian, 


MARIAN GREY 


177 


who readily understood the matter. never care for a regu- 
lar dinner — indeed I may not be hungry at all.” 

The old lady's face brightened perceptibly, and she replied : 

^‘Oh, I don't mind a cup of tea and the like o' that, but 
to brile or stew this hot day ain't so pleasant when a person 
is fleshy as I am. I'll get you something, though; and now 
you go upstairs to your room, the one at the right hand, with 
the white furniture and the silver jigger that lets the water 
into the marble dish. We live in style, I tell you; and Mr. 
Raymond is a gentleman, if there ever was one — only he 
wants meat three times a day, just as he has in Kentucky. 
Thinks, I s'pose, it don't hurt me any more to sweat over the 
fire than it does that Dinah Alice talks so much about. Yes, 
that's the door — right there.” 


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CHAPTER XX 

FREDERIC AND ALICE VISIT MARIANAS OLD HOME 

“Frederic/’ said Alice, about six weeks before Marian’s ar- 
rival at Riverside, “who hired that Mrs. Merton to take care 
of you when you were sick at the hotel ?” 

“The proprietor, I suppose,” returned Frederic. 

Alice continued : 

“But who told him of her ?” 

“I don’t know,” said Frederic. “She was from tlie country, 
I believe.” 

“Yes, yes,” returned Alice; “but some person must have 
recommended her, and if you can ascertain who that person 
was, you may find Mrs. Merton, and learn something of 
Marian.” 

“I wonder I never thought of that before,” said Frederic, 
adding, that if Alice had her sight he believed she would have 
discovered Marian ere this. 

“I know I should,” was her answer; and after a little 
further conversation it was decided that Frederic should go 
to New York and learn, if possible, who first suggested Mrs. 
Merton as nurse. 

This was not so easy a matter as he had imagined it to be, 
for, though Frederic himself was well remembered at the 
hotel, where he was now a frequent guest, scarcely anyone 
could recall Mrs. Merton distinctly, and no one seemed to 
know how she came there, until a servant, who had been in the 
house a long time, spoke of Martha Gibbs, and then the pro- 
prietor suddenly remembered that she had recommended Mrs. 
Merton as being a friend of hers. 

“But who is Martha Gibbs, and where is she now?” Fred- 
eric asked; and the servants replied that: 

“Her home used to be in Woodstock, Connecticut”; and 
with this item of information Frederic wrote to her friends, 
inquiring where she was. 

To this letter there came ere long an answer, saying that 
Mrs. John Jennings lived in , a small town in the in- 

terior of Iowa. Accordingly, the next mail westward from 
Yonkers carried a letter to said Mrs. Jennings, asking where 
Marian Grey 179 


180 


MARIAN GREY 


the woman lived who had nursed Mr. Raymond through that 
dangerous fever. This being done, Frederic and Alice waited 
impatiently for a reply, which was long in coming, for Mr. 
Jennings’ log tenement was several miles from the post office, 
where he seldom called, and it was more than a week ere the 
letter reached him. Even then it found him so engrossed in 
the arrival of his first-born son and heir, that for two or three 
days longer it lay unopened in the clock-case, ere he thought 
to look at it. 

don’t know what it means, I’m sure,” he said, taking it 
to his wife, who, having never heard of the death of her old 
friend, replied: 

‘Why, he wants to know where Mrs. Burt lives. Just write 

on a piece of paper: ‘East Street, No. , third 

story; turn to your right; door at the head of the stairs.’ I 
wonder if he’s never been there yet?” 

John was not an elaborate correspondent, and he simply 
wrote down his better half’s direction, saying nothing what- 
ever of Mrs. Burt herself, and thus conveying to Frederic no 
idea that Merton was not the real name. 

“A letter from Iowa,” said Frederic to Alice, as he came in 
from the office, on the very night when Marian was walking 
slowly past what was once her home. “I have the street and 
number, and tomorrow I am going there.” 

“And I am going, too,” cried Alice. “Won’t Marian be sur- 
prised to see us both 1 I hope she’ll come to the door herself ; 
and, Frederic, if she does, you will kiss her, won’t you, and 
act like you was glad, for if you don’t, maybe she won’t come 
back with us.” 

“I will do right,” answered Frederic, adding in a low tone, 
“Perhaps she will not be there.” 

“Yes, she will,” was Alice’s positive reply, “or if she’s not, 
somebody can tell us where she is. Only to think, we shall see 
her tomorrow. I do wish it would hurry, and I’m glad Miss 
Grey is not coming until the day after. It will be so nice to 
have them both here. Do you suppose they’ll like each other, 
Marian and Miss Grey?” 

“I dare say they will,” returned Frederic, smiling at the 
little girl’s enthusiasm, and hoping she might not be disap- 
pointed. 

Anon, a shadow clouded Alice’s face, and observing it, 
Frederic passed his hand over her hair, saying : “What is it, 
birdie ?” 

“Frederic,” said Alice, creeping closely to the side of the 
young man, “isn’t Miss Grey very beautiful ?” 


MARIAN GREY 


181 


‘^Mr. Gordon and Ben say so,” returned Frederic, and Alice 
continued : 

^‘Don’t you be angry with me, but you loved Isabel the best 
because she was the handsomest, and now you won’t love Miss 
Grey better than Marian, will you, and you’ll be Marian’s 
husband right off, won’t you?” 

“When Marian comes here it will be as my wife,” said 
Frederic, and with this answer Alice was satisfied. 

“I wish it would grow dark faster,” she said, for she could 
tell when it was night; and Frederic, while listening to the 
many different ways she conjured up for them to meet 
Marian, became almost as impatient as herself for the mor- 
row, when his renewed hopes might, perhaps, be realized. 

The breakfast next morning was hurried through, for 
neither Alice nor Frederic could eat, and Mrs. Russell, when 
she saw how much was left untouched, congratulated herself 
upon its answering for the hired man’s dinner, and thus giving 
her a nice long time for sewing. 

“It isn’t a bit likely Miss Grey will come today,” said Alice, 
as she followed Frederic to the carriage, and, confident of 
this, they gave Miss Grey no further thought, but went on 
their way in search of Marian. When they reached New 
York, Frederic, who had some business to transact, left Alice 
in the parlor at the Hotel Astor, where she sat with her face 
to the window, just as though she could see the passers-by; 
and, as she sat there, a party who were leaving glanced hastily 
in, all seeing the little figure by the window, and one thinking 
to herself : “She wears her hair combed back, as Alice used 
to do.” 

Then the group passed on, while over the face of the blind 
girl there flitted for an instant a wondering, bewildering ex- 
pression, for her quick ear had caught the sound of a voice 
which it seemed to her she had heard before — not there — ^not 
in New York — but far away, at Redstone Hall. What was it? 
Who was it? She bent her head to listen, hoping to hear it 
again, but it came no more, for Marian Grey had left the 
house, and was passing up Broadway. It was not long ere 
Frederic returned, and taking Alice’s hand, he led her into the 
street, and entered a Third Avenue car. 

“We are on the right track, I think,” he said, “for it was 
this way she went with the man described by Sarah Green.*^ 

Alice gave a sigh of relief, and, leaning against Frederic, 
rather enjoyed the pleasant motion of the car, although she 
wished it would go faster. 

“Won’t we ever get there?” she asked, as they plodded 


182 


MARIAN GREY 


slowly on, stopping often to take in a passenger, or set one 
down. 

‘Yes, by and by,” said Frederic encouragingly. “I am not 
quite certain of the street, myself, but I shall know it when I 
see the name, of course”; and he looked anxiously out as he 
passed along. “Here it is I” he cried, at last ; and, seizing 
Alice's arm, he rather dragged than led her from the car, and 
out upon the crossing. 

“I've found it!” he said, as his eye caught the number; 
and now that he believed himself near to what he had sought 
so long, he was more impatient than Alice herself. 

He could not wait for her uncertain footsteps, and, pale 
with excitement, he caught her in his arms and hurried up the 
narrow stairs, which many a time had creaked to Marian's 
tread. The third story was reached at last, and he stood pant- 
ing by the door, where Mr. Jennings had said that he must 
stop. It was open, and the greasy, uncarpeted floor, of which 
he caught a glimpse, looked cheerless and uninviting, but H 
did not keep him back a moment, and he advanced into the 
room, which, by the three heads at the window, he knew was 
the same where the white curtain once had hung, and where 
now the glaring August sunlight came pouring in, unbroken 
and unsubdued. 

At the sight of a stranger one of the heads turned toward 
him and a little voice said: 

“Ma's out washin', she is, and won't be home till night.” 

There was a cold, heavy feeling of disappointment settling 
around Frederic's heart, for nothing there seemed at all like 
what he remembered of the neat, tidy Mrs. Merton, but he 
nerved himself to ask : 

“What is your mother's name?” 

“Bunce, and my pa is in the Tombs,” was the reply. 

“How long have you lived here?” was the next question, 
asked with a colder, heavier heart. 

“Next Christmas a year,” said the little girl, and catching 
Frederic's arm, Alice whispered: 

“Do let's get out into the open air.” 

Nearly all the present tenants had moved there since Mrs. 
Burt's death, and none knew aught of her save one rather de- 
cent-looking woman, who said “she remembered the folks 
well, though they held their heads above the likes of her. 
She'd seen them cornin' in and out and had peeked into their 
room, so she knew they was well to do.” 

“Was their name Merton, and did a young girl live with 
them?” asked Frederic; and the woman replied: 


MARIAN GREY 


183 


^^Merton sounds some like it, though Fd sooner say it was 
Burton, or something like that. I never even so much as 
passed the time of day with 'em, for I tell you they felt above 
me; but the girl was a jewel — so trim and genteel-like." 

'That was Marian," whispered Alice, and Frederic con- 
tinued : 

“Where are they now?" 

“Bless you," returned the woman, “one on 'em is in heaven, 
and the Lord only knows where t'other one went to." 

Alice’s hand, which lay in Frederic's, was clutched with a 
painful grasp ; and the perspiration gathered about the young 
man's white lips as he stammered out: 

“Which one is dead? Not the girl? You dare not tell me 
that?" 

“I dare if it was so," returned the woman; “but 'twant; 
'twas the old one — the one I took to be her mother; though 
I have heard a story about the girl’s cornin' here long time 
ago, before I moved here. I was away when the woman died, 
and when I got back the room was empty, and the boy and 
girl was gone; nobody knows where; and I hain't seen 'em 
since." 

There was now nothing to do but to return to the hotel. 
Leaving Alice there, Frederic went back again to the street 
and made the most minute inquiries, but all to no purpose. 
He could not obtain the least clew to her, and he retraced his 
steps with a feeling that she was as really lost to him as 
if Sarah Green's letter had been true and Marian resting in 
her grave. 

“Why had that letter been written?" he asked himself again 
and again. 

Somebody knew of Marian, and there was a mystery con- 
nected with it — a mystery of wrong, it might be. Perhaps she 
could not come back, even though she wanted to, and his 
pulses quickened with painful rapidity as he thought of all 
the imaginary terrors which might surround the lost one. It 
was indeed a sad refliection, and his spirits were unusually de- 
pressed, when just before sunset he took Alice by one hand, 
a basket in the other, and started for home. 

“I didn't think we should come back alone," said Alice, 
when at last they reached the depot at Yonkers, and she was 
lifted into the carriage waiting for them, “It's dreadful we 
couldn't find her, but I'm so glad we've got her cat," and she 
guarded the basket carefully, as if it had contained the dia- 
monds of India. 

Frederic did not care to talk, and folding his arms, he 


184 


MARIAN GREY 


leaned moodily back in his carriage, evincing no interest in 
anything until, as they drew near home, the driver said to 
Alice : 

‘^Guess who's come?" 

‘‘Oh, I don't know — Dinah, maybe," was Alice's reply; and 
then Frederic smiled at the preposterous idea. 

“No; guess again," said the ^iver. “Somebody as hand- 
some as a doll." 

“Miss Grey!" cried Alice, almost upsetting her basket in 
her delight. 

Eagerly she questioned John, and then replied: 

“I'm so glad, though I was going to fix her room so nice 
tomorrow — but no matter, it's always pleasant up there. How 
lonesome she must ‘have been all day, with nothing but the 
garden, the books, and the piano." 

“She has been homesick, I guess," said John, “for I seen 
her cryin', I thought, under a tree in the garden." 

“Poor thing!" sighed Alice. “She won't be homesick any 
more when we get there, will she, FrcdsTic?" 


CHAPTER XXI 


THE MEETING 

Notwithstanding Alice’s fears the day had not been a 
Jong one to Marian, who had been so occupied in unpacking 
her trunks and in going over the house and grounds, as 
scarcely to heed the lapse of time, and she was surprised 
when, about sunset, she saw John drive from the yard, and 
knew he was going for his master. Not till then did she fully 
realize her position, and she sought her chamber to compose 
herself for the dreaded trial which each moment came nearer 
and nearer. 

“Will Frederic know me?” she asked herself a dozen times, 
and as often answered no — but Alice, ah, Alice, there wa^ 
danger to be apprehended from her, and Marian felt that she 
would far rather meet the scrutinizing gaze of Frederic Ray- 
mond’s eyes than submit herself to the touch of the blind girl’s 
fingers, or trust her voice to the blind girl’s ear. 

“I will be calm,” she said, and with one tremendous effort 
of the will she quieted the violent throbbings of her heart, and 
leaning on her elbow, pretended to be reading, though not a 
sound escaped her ear. She heard the little feet come running 
up the walk, and the heavy, manly tread following in the rear. 

Half rising to her feet, she waited for the first words of 
greeting. 

“Miss Grey, I believe”; and bowing low, Frederic Raymond 
advanced toward Marian, who now stood up, so that the blaze 
of the chandelier fell full upon her, revealing at once her face 
and form. 

Had her very life depended upon it she could not have 
spoken then, for the stormy emotions the name “Miss Grey” 
called up, mastered her speech entirely. She knew he would 
thus address her, but it grated harshly on her ear to hear him 
call her so, and her heart yearned for the familiar name of 
Marian, though she had no reason to expect it from him. 

“You are welcome to Riverside,” he continued; “and I re- 
gret that your first day here should have been so lonely.” 

This gave her a little time, and conquering her weakness, 
she extended her hand to take the one he offered. Hers was 
cold and clammy, and trembled like an imprisoned bird, as it 
Marian Grey 185 


186 


MARIAN GREY 


lay in his broad, warm palm. For an instant he held it there, 
and gazed down into her sweet, childish face, which did not 
look wholly unfamiliar to him, while she herself seemed more 
like a dear friend than a total stranger. The tie between 
them, which naught but death could sever, and which was 
bound so closely around Marian's heart, brought to his own 
an answering throb, and when at last she spoke, assuring 
him that she had not been lonely in the least, he started, 
for there was something in the tond which moved him as a 
stranger oft is moved, when hearing in the calm, still night 
the air of ‘^Home, Sweet Home." It carried him back to Red- 
stone Hall, years and years ago, when in the moonlight he 
played with his dusky companion upon the river brink. But 
Marian Lindsey had no portion of his thoughts at the first in- 
terview with Marian Grey, who ventured at last to look into 
his face just as he was looking into hers. Oh, how much like 
the Frederic of old he was, save that in his mature manhood, 
he was finer, nobler looking, while the proud fire of his eyes 
had given place to a milder, softer expression, and she felt in- 
tuitively that he was far more worthy of any woman's love 
than when she knew him before. 

Motioning her to a chair, he, too, sat down at a little dis- 
tance and conversed with her pleasantly, as friend converses 
with friend, asking about her journey, making inquiries after 
Mrs. Sheldon's family, and experiencing a most unaccountable 
sensation when he saw how she blushed at the mention of 
William Gordon. Ben was next talked about, and Marian 
was growing eloquent in his praise, when suddenly a sight 
met her view which petrified her powers of speech and sent 
the blood ebbing backward from her cheek and lip. In the 
hall without, and where Frederic could not see her, the blind 
girl stood, her hands clasped and tightly raised, her lips apart, 
her eyes rolling, her head bent forward, and her ear turned 
toward the door, whence came the sound which had arrested 
her footsteps and chained her to the spot. She had started 
for the parlor and come thus far, when she, too, caught the 
tone which had affected even Frederic, and her head grew 
dizzy with the bewildering sound, for to her it brought mem- 
ories of Marian. Had she come? Was she there with Fred- 
eric and Miss Grey? Eagerly she waited to hear the sound 
repeated, wondering why Miss Grey, too, did not join in the 
conversation. It came again, the old, familiar strain, though 
tuned to a sadder note, for Marian had suffered much since 
last she talked with Alice, and it was perceptible even in her 
voice. Tighter and tighter the small hands pressed together 


MARIAN GREY 


187 


— lower and lower bent the head, while a shade of disappoint- 
ment flitted over the face of the listening child, for this time 
it did not seem quite so natural as at first, and she knew, too, 
that 'twas Miss Grey who spoke, for her subject was Ben 
Butterworth. 

“What is it?’’ asked Frederic, observing that Miss Grey 
stopped suddenly in the midst of a remark. 

Marian pointed toward the spot where Alice stood, but ere 
Frederic had time to step forward, the loud ring of the bell 
started Alice from an attitude which, had Frederic Raymond 
seen it, would surely have led to a discovery. 

“The little girl, she acts so singular,” said Marian, think- 
ing she must make some explanation. 

“She’s blind, you know,” was answered in a low tone, and 
going toward the hall, Frederic met with Alice just as a 
servant opened the outer door, and a stranger entered, asking 
for Mr. Raymond. 

“In a moment,” said Frederic, and leading Alice up to Marian, 
he continued, “your teacher,” and then left the two together. 

For an instant there was perfect silence, and Marian knew 
the blind girl could hear the beating of her heart, while she 
in turn watched the wonder and perplexity written on the 
speaking face turned upward toward her own, the brown eyes 
riveted upon her, as for once they had broken from their 
prison walls and could discern what was before them. 

Oh, how Marian longed to take the little helpless creature 
in her arms, to hug her, to kiss her, to cry over her, and tell 
her of the love which had never known one moment’s abate- 
ment during the long years of their separation. But she dared 
not; the time was not yet, and she sat gazing at her to see if 
she had changed since the night when she left her sleeping so 
quietly in their dear old room at home. She was now nearly 
twelve, but her figure was so slight, and her features so child- 
like, that few would have guessed her more than nine, unless 
they judged by her mature, womanly mind. To Marian she 
seemed the same ; and when, unable longer to restrain herself, 
she drew the child to her, and, kissing her forehead, said to 
her kindly: 

“You are Alice, my pupil, I am sure. Alice what ?” 

“Alice Raymond”; and the sightless eyes never moved for 
an instant from the questioner’s face. 

“Are you very nearly related to Mr. Raymond?” asked 
Marian; and Alice replied: 

“Second cousin, that’s all. But he has been more than a 
brother to me since — since — ” 


188 


MARIAN GREY 


The perplexed, mystified look increased on Alice's face, and 
her gaze grew more intense as she continued : ‘‘Since Marian 
went away." 

There was a moment's stillness, and then the hand which 
hitherto had rested on Marian's lap was raised until it 
reached the head, where it lay lightly, very lightly ; though to 
Marian it seemed like the weight of a thousand pounds, and 
she felt every hair prickle at its root when the blind girl said 
to her: 

“Ain't you Marian?" 

“Yes, Marian Grey. Didn't you know my first name?" was 
the answer, spoken so deliberately that Marian was astonished 
at herself. 

There was a wavering then in the brown eyes, a quivering 
of the lids, and the great tears rolled down Alice's cheeks ; for 
with this calm reply, uttered so naturally, the hope she had 
scarcely dared to cherish passed away, and she murmured 
sadly : 

“It cannot be her." 

“What makes you cry, darling?" asked Marian, choking 
back her own tears, which were just ready to flow, and which 
did gush forth in torrents, when Alice answered : 

“Oh, I wish I wasn't blind tonight !" 

This surely was a good excuse for weeping and pressing the 
little one to her bosom. Marian wept over her passionately 
for a few moments ; then drying her eyes, she said : 

“Why tonight more than any other time?" 

“Because I want so much to see how you look," returned 
Alice ; adding, immediately : “May I feel your face ? It's the 
only way I have of seeing." 

“Certainly," answered Marian; and the fingers wandered 
slowly, cautiously, over every feature, involuntarily caressing 
the fair, round cheek, but lingering longest on the hair — the 
beautiful hair — whose glossy waves were perceptible even to 
the touch. 

“What color is it?" she asked, winding one of the curls 
around her finger. 

“Some call it auburn, some chestnut, and some a mixture of 
both," was the reply, and Alice continued her investigations 
by mentally comparing its length with a standard she had in 
her own mind. 

The two did not agree, for the curls she remembered were 
longer and far more wiry than the silken tresses of Miss 
Prey. 

“How tall are you?” she suddenly asked, and Marian tried 


MARIAN GREY 


189 


to laugh, although every nerve was thrilling with fear, for she 
knew she was passing through a dangerous test. 

''Rather tall,’’ she replied, standing up. "Yes, very tall, 
some would say. Put up your hand and see.” 

Alice did as she requested, and her tears came faster, as 
she whispered, mournfully, "You’re the tallest.” 

"Did you think we had met before?” asked Marian, and 
then the sobs of the child burst forth unrestrained. 

Burying her face in Marian’s lap, she cried: "Yes — ^no — I 
don’t know what I thought, only you don’t seem to me like I 
supposed you would. You make me tremble so, and I keep 
thinking of somebody we lost long ago. At first your voice 
sounded so natural that I ’most knew she was here, but you 
ain’t even like her. You’re taller and handsomer, I reckon, 
and yet there is something about you that makes my heart beat 
so fast. Oh, I wish I could see what it is. What made God 
make me blind?” 

Never before had Marian heard a murmur from the lips of 
the unfortunate child, and it seemed to her cruel not to whis- 
per words of comfort in her ear. But she could not do it yet, 
and so she kissed her tenderly, saying: "Did you love this 
other one so very much ?” 

"Yes, very, very much,” was Alice’s reply; "and it hurts 
me so to think we cannot find her.” 

Frederic appeared just then, telling them tea was ready. 

"I am afraid you will think we keep Lent here all the year 
around,” he said apologetically. "I was surprised to find that 
Mrs. Russell compelled you to fast until our return.” 

"It didn’t matter,” Marian replied; though she had won-* 
dered a little at the non-appearance of supper, for Mrs. Rus- 
sell, intent upon her dress, had no idea of "makin’ two fusses,’” 
and she kept her visitor waiting until the return of Frederic, 
saying, "the supper would taste all the better when it did 
come.” 

Very willingly Marian followed Frederic to the dining 
room, where everything was indicative of elegance and 
wealth. 

"Mrs. Jones used to sit here, and I now give the place to 
you,” said Frederic, motioning to the seat by the tea tray, and 
himself sitting down opposite, with Alice upon his right. 

Marian became her new position well, and so Frederic 
thought, as he saw how gracefully her snowy fingers handled 
the silver urn, and how much at home she seemed. There was 
a strange fascination about her as she sat there at the head of 
his table, with the bright bloom on her cheek, and the dewy 


190 


MARIAN GREY 


luster in her beautiful blue eyes, which occasionally wandered 
toward the figure opposite, but as often fell beneath the 
curious gaze which they encountered. Frederic could not for- 
bear looking at her, even though he saw that it embarrassed 
her — she was so fresh, so fair, so modest — while there was 
about her an indescribable something which he could not de- 
fine, for though a stranger, as he supposed, she seemed near 
to him — so near that he almost felt he had a right to pass his 
arm around her, and kiss the girlish lips which Will Gordon 
had likened to a rosebud. 

^Toor Will,’^ he sighed, ^'he did lose a prize when he lost 
Marian Grey.*’ 

Involuntarily his mind went back to Redstone Hall, and to 
the time when another Marian sat opposite, and did for him 
the office this one was doing. The contrast between the two 
was great, but, with a nobleness worthy of the man, he 
thought, ^‘Marian Grey is more beautiful, *tis true, but Marian 
Lindsey was my wife.” 

Then he remembered the day when Isabel first sat at his 
board, and he had felt it a sin to look at her in all her queenly 
beauty. He had grown hard since then, for he could not think 
it wicked to look at Marian Grey, or deem it a wrong to the 
other one, and he feasted his eyes upon her until she arose 
from the table, and went away with Alice. He soon followed 
them into the parlor. 

^'Will you play for us. Miss Grey?” asked Frederic, and 
without a word of apology, Marian seated herself at the piano, 
whose rich, mellow tones aroused her enthusiasm at once, and 
she played more than usually well, while Alice stood by listen- 
ing eagerly, and Frederic looked on, scarce heeding the stir- 
ring notes, so intent was he upon the dimpled hands which 
swept the keys so skillfully. 

On the third finger there was a little cornelian ring, the 
first gift of Ben, and as he looked he felt certain he had seen 
that ring and those hands before. But where? He tried to 
recall the time and the place. Stepping forward he looked 
into her face, but that gave him no clew, only the ring and 
the hands were familiar. Suddenly he started, for he remem- 
bered the when and the where — remembered, too, that Alice, 
when told of the girl with the brown veil, had said to him: 

* Wasn’t that our Marian?” 

He had accepted the suggestion as a possible one then, but 
he doubted it now, for if that maiden were Marian Grey, it 
certainly could not have been Marian Lindsey. The exquisite 
music ceased, and ere Alice had time for a word of comment, 


MARIAN GREY 


191 


he asked abruptly: ‘'Miss Grey, did you never ride in the 
cars with me in New York?” 

The question was a startling one, but Marian's face was 
ijurned from him, and he could not see the effort she made to 
answer him calmly. 

‘T think it very probable. I have been in the cars a great 
many times, and with a great many different people.” 

“Yes, but one rainy night, more than three years ago, did 
not I offer you a seat between myself and the door? You 
wore a brown veil, and carried a willow basket, if it were 
you. Something about your appearance has puzzled me all 
the evening, and I think I must have met you before. It was 
on the Third Avenue cars.” 

Marian trembled violently, but by constantly turning the 
leaves of her music book she managed to conceal her agitation, 
and when Frederic ceased speaking she answered in her nat- 
ural tone: “Now that you recall the circumstances, I believe 
I do remember something about it, though you do not look as 
that man did. I imagined he had been sick, or was in 
trouble,” and Marian's blue eyes turned sideways to witness, 
if possible, the effect of her words. But she was disap- 
pointed, for she could not see how white Frederic was for a 
single instant, but she felt it in his voice, as he replied: 

“You are right. I had been sick, and I was in great trouble.” 

“Wasn't that when you were looking for Marian?” Alice 
asked, and again the blue eyes sought Frederic's face, turning 
this time so that they could see it. 

“Yes, I was hunting for Marian,” was the answer, and the 
deep sigh which accompanied the words brought a thrill of 
joy to the Marian hunted for, and she knew now, and from 
his own lips, too, that he had sought for her, nay, that he was 
looking for her even then, when in her anger she censured 
him for not recognizing her. 

Little by little she was learning the truth just as it was ; and 
when, at a late hour, she bade Frederic good-night, and went 
to her own chamber, her heart was almost too full for utter- 
ance, for she felt that the long, dark night was over, and the 
dawn she had waited for so long was breaking at last around 
her. Intuitively, Alice, who had been permitted to sit up as 
long as she did, caught something of the same spirit. “It is 
almost as nice as if Marian really were there,” she said; and 
she came twice to kiss her governess, while on her face was 
a most satisfied expression, as she nestled among her pillows 
and listened to the footsteps in the adjoining chamber, where 
Marian made her nightly toilet. 


192 


MARIAN GREY 


‘^Oh, I wish she'd let me sleep with her !" she thought. ‘^It 
would be a heap more like having Marian back." And when 
all was still, she stepped upon the floor, and glided to the bed- 
side of Marian, who was not aware of her approach until a 
voice whispered in her ear : 

‘‘May I stay here with you ? I've been making believe that 
you was Marian — our Marian, I mean — and I want to sleep 
with you so much, just as I used to do with her — may I?" 

“Yes, darling," was the answer, as Marian folded her 
arms lovingly around the neck of the blind girl, whose soft, 
warm cheek was pressed against her own. 

And there, just as they were used to do in their old Ken- 
tucky home, ere sorrow had come to either, they lay again 
side by side, Marian and Alice; the one dreaming sweet 
dreams of the Marian come back to her again; and the other 
that to her the gates of Paradise were opened, and she saw the 
the glory shining through, just as in Frederic Raymond's 
eyes she had seen the glimmer of the love light which was yet 
to overshadow her, and brighten her future pathway. 


CHAPTER XXII 


LIFE AT RIVERSIDE 

It was a joyful waking which came to Marian next morn- 
ing, and, when fresh and glowing from her invigorating bath, 
she descended to the piazza, she was surprised at finding 
Frederic there before her, looking haggard and pale, as if the 
boon of sleep had been denied him. After Marian and Alice 
had bidden him good-night, he, too, had retired to his room, 
which was directly under theirs; and, sitting in his armchair, 
he had listened to the footsteps above, readily distinguishing 
one from the other, and experiencing, unconsciously, a vague, 
delicious feeling of comfort in knowing that the long-talked- 
of Marian Grey had come to him at last, and that she was 
even more beautiful than he had imagined her to be, from 
Will Gordon’s glowing description. He would keep her with 
him, too, he said, until the other one was found, if that should 
ever be ; and then, as the footsteps and the murmur of voice#' 
in the chamber above ceased, and all about the house was still; 
his heart went out after the other one, demanding of the soli- 
tude around to show him where she was — ^to lead him to her, so 
that he could bring her back to the home where, each day, he 
was wanting her more and more. And the solitude, thus 
questioned, invariably carried his thoughts to Marian Grey, 
whose delicate, girlish beauty had made so strong an impres- 
sion upon his mind. How would the two compare? he asked. 
Would not the governess far outshine the wife? Would not 
the contrast be a painful one? 

‘"No, no!” he said; *‘for, though Marian Lindsey were not 
as beautiful as Marian Grey, she was gentle, pure and good.” 
And then, as he sought his pillow, he went back again in 
fancy to that feverish sick room, and the tender love which 
alone had saved him from death ; while mingled with this re- 
membrance were confused thoughts of the veiled maiden in 
the corner of the car — of the geranium growing in the win- 
dow, and of Marian Grey, who seemed a part of everything — 
for, turn which way he would, her blue eyes were sure to 
shine upon him; and once, when, for a few moments, he fell 
into a troubled sleep, she said to him, ‘T am the Marian you 
seek ” 

Marian Grey 


193 


194 


MARIAN GREY 


Then this vision faded, and he saw a little grave, on whose 
humble stone was written, ‘The Heiress of Redstone Hall,'' 
and with a nervous start he awoke, only to doze and dream 
again, until at last he was glad when the dawn came stealing 
across the misty river and looked in at his window. The sun 
was not yet up when he arose, and going out upon the broad 
piazza, tried by walking to gain the rest the night had failed 
to bring. And as he walked Spotty came purring to his side, 
rubbing against his feet and looking into his face as if she 
fain would tell him, if she could, that the lost one had re- 
turned, and was safe beneath his roof. 

Frederic Raymond could not be said to care particularly 
for cats, but there was a charm connected with this one gam- 
boling at his feet, and he did not deem it an unmanly act to 
stoop down and caress it for the sake of her who had often 
had it in her arms. 

“Can you tell me nothing of your mistress ?" he said, aloud, 
for he thought himself alone. 

Instantly the cat, whose ear had caught a sound he did not 
hear, bounded toward the door where Marian Grey was stand- 
ing. Advancing toward her, Frederic said: “You must ex- 
cuse me. Miss Grey. I am not often guilty of petting cats, 
but this one has a peculiar attraction for me, inasmuch as it 
once belonged to — ^to — to Mrs. Raymond," and Frederic felt 
vastly relieved to think he had actually spoken of his wife to 
Marian Grey, and called her Mrs. Raymond, too ! He knew 
Will Gordon had told her the story, and when he saw how the 
color came and went upon her cheek, he fancied that it arose 
from the delicacy she would naturally feel in talking with him 
of his runaway wife. He was glad he had introduced the 
subject, and she could continue it or not as she chose. Marian 
hardly knew how to reply, for though she longed to hear 
what he had to say of Mrs. Raymond, she scarcely dared trust 
herself to question him. 

At last, however, she ventured to say: “Yes; Alice told me 
that it was once your wife's. She is dead, isn't she?" 

Frederic started, and walking off a few paces, replied: 
“Marian dead ! not that I know of ! Did you ever hear that 
she was?" and he came back to Marian, looking at her so 
earnestly that she colored deeply, as she replied: 

“Mr. Gordon told me something of her; and I had the im- 
pression that — " 

She did not know how to finish the sentence, and she was 
glad to hear a little, uncertain step upon the stairs, as that was 
an excuse for her to break off abruptly, and go to Alice, who 


MARIAN GREY 


195 


came down in quest of her, and expressed much surprise that 
she should arise so early and dress so quietly. 

‘‘Mrs. Jones used to make such a noise coughing and 
sneezing,’ ' she said, “that she always awoke me, while Isabel 
never got up till breakfast was ready, and sometimes not then 
when we were in Kentucky. Negroes were made to wait on 
her, she said. Shell be coming over here to call and see how 
you look. I heard her asking Mrs. Russell last week if you 
were pretty, and she said — ” 

“Never mind what she said,” suggested Marian; adding, 
laughingly: “I have heard of Miss Huntington before. Will 
Gordon told me of her, and Ben, too. He saw her in Ken- 
tucky, you know; so you see, I am tolerably well posted in 
your family affairs”; and she turned toward Frederic, who 
was about to answer, when Alice, who had climbed into a 
chair, and was standing with her arm around the young man’s 
neck, chimed in: 

“If Mr. Gordon told you that Frederic liked her it isn’t so, 
for he don’t; do you, Frederic?” 

“I like all the ladies,” was the reply; and as the breakfast 
bell then rang, the conversation ceased, and they entered the 
house together, Alice holding fast to Marian’s hand, and 
dancing along like a joyous bird. 

“You seem very happy this morning,” said Frederic, smil- 
ing down upon the happy child. 

“I am,” she replied. “I’m ’most as happy as I should be if 
we had found Marian yesterday. Wouldn’t it be splendid if 
this were really Marian; and wouldn’t you be glad?” 

Frederic Raymond did not say yes — ^he did not say any- 
thing; but as he looked at the figure in white presiding a 
second time so gracefully at his table, he fancied that it would 
not be a hard matter for any man to be glad if Marian Grey 
were his wife. Breakfast being over, Alice assumed the re- 
responsibility of showing her teacher the place. 

“You were here once, I know,” she said, “and left me those 
flowers, but you hadn’t time then to see half. There’s a tree 
down in the garden, where Frederic’s name is cut in the bark, 
and Marian Lindsey’s, too. You must see that”; and she led 
her off to the spot where John had seen her crying the day 
before. “I ain’t going to study a bit for ever so long. Fred- 
eric says I needn’t,” said Alice. “I’m going to have a right 
nice time with you.” And Marian was not sorry, for nothing 
could please her better than rambling with Alice over what 
was once her home. 

Very rapidly the first few days passed away, and ere a 


196 


MARIAN GREY 


week had gone by, Marian understood tolerably well the place 
Marian Lindsey occupied in her husband’s affections, and she 
needed not the letter received from William Gordon to tell her 
that the Frederic Raymond of today was not the same from 
whose presence she had once fled with a breaking heart. 

Alice talked a great deal about the lost Marian, and one day 
her teacher asked : ‘^Did Mr. Raymond never hear from her ?” 

Alice replied: 

‘^Yes, and that’s the mystery. One cold March night when 
Isabel was dressing for a party and was just as cross as she 
could be, there came to him a letter from Sarah Green, say- 
ing she was dead and buried with canker-rash.” 

^‘Dead !” exclaimed Marian, starting quickly. ‘When ? 
where ?” 

“In New York,” answered Alice; and Marian listened 
breathlessly to the story of her supposed decease, wondering, 
as Frederic had often done, whence the letter came, and why 
it had been sent. i 

“It must have been a plan of Ben’s to see what he would 
do,” she thought ; and she listened again, with burning cheeks 
and beating heart, while Alice told of Frederic’s grief when 
he read that she was dead. 

“I know he cried,” said Alice, “for there were tears on his 
face, and he sat so still, and held me so close to him that I 
could hear his heart thump so hard,” and she illustrated it by 
striking her tiny fist upon the table. 

Then she told how some time after she had interrupted 
Frederic in the parlor, just as he was asking Isabel to be his 
wife, and had almost convinced him again of Marian’s exist- 
ence. 

“Blessed Alice,” said Marian involuntarily. “You have 
been Miss Lindsey’s good angel, and kept her husband from 
falling.” 

“I couldn’t help it,” answered Alice. “I ’most knew she 
was alive; and I was so glad when he started for New York. 
[ was sure he’d find her; and he did. She took care of him a 
few days and his voice sounded so low and sad when he told 
me of her, and how she left him when Isabel came. Your 
brother Ben — ^the nice man who gave me the bracelet — ^tele- 
graphed for her to go; and you would have supposed she was 
crazy — she flew around so, ordering the negroes, and knock- 
ing Dud down flat, because he couldn’t run fast enough to get 
out of her way. That made Aunt Hetty, his grandmother, 
mad, and she yellowed Isabel’s collar that she was ironing. If 
I hadn’t been blind I should have cried myself so, those dread- 


MARIAN GREY 


197 


ful days when we expected to hear Frederic was dead, for 
next to Marian I love him the best. He’s real good to me 
now; and when I asked him once what made him pet me so 
much more than he used to, he said : ^Because our dear, lost 
Marian loved you, and you loved her.’ ” 

‘"Did he say that ? Did he call her his ^dear, lost Marian’ ?” 
and the eyes of the speaker sparkled with delight, while across 
her mind there flitted the half-formed resolution that before 
the sun had set Frederic Raymond should know the whole. 

Ere Alice could answer this question, there was a loud ring 
at the door, and a servant brought to Miss Grey, Isabel Hunt- 
ington’s card. 

knew she’d call,” said Alice. ‘^She wants to see how you 
look; but I don’t care, for Frederic thinks you’re a heap the 
handsomest. I asked him last night after you quit playing, 
and had left the room.” 

The knowledge that Frederic Raymond preferred her face 
to that of Isabel, rendered Marian far more self-possessed 
than she would otherwise have been, as she went down to meet 
her visitor, whose call was prompted from mere curiosity, and 
not from any friendliness she felt toward Marian Grey. 

They had met before, but there was no token of recognition 
between them now, and as strangers they greeted each other, 
Marian’s hand trembling slightly as she offered it to Isabel — 
for she knew that this was not their first meeting. Coldly, in- 
quisitively, and almost impudently, the haughty Isabel scruti- 
nized the graceful creature, mentally acknowledging that she 
was beautiful, and hating her for it. With a great effort 
Marian concealed her agitation, and answered carelessly the 
first few commonplace remarks addressed to her, as to how 
she liked Riverside, and if this was her first visit there. 

^^No,” she answered to this last question, came here once 
with Ben, who, you remember, was once at Redstone Hall,” 

‘T could not well forget him. His odd Yankee ways fur- 
nished gossip for many a day among the negroes.” And 
Isabel tossed her head scornfully, as if Ben Burt were a 
creature far beneath her notice. 

After a little, she spoke of Mr. Raymond, asking Marian, 
finally, what she thought of him, and saying she supposed she 
knew he was a married man. 

'T know he has been married, but is there any certainty 
that his wife is still living?” asked Marian, for the sake of 
hearing her visitor’s remarks. 

^Any certainty! Of course there is,” said Isabel, ex- 
periencing at once a pang of jealousy lest the humble Marian 


198 


MARIAN GREY 


Grey had dared to think of Frederic as a widower, and hence 
a marriageable man. course she's living, though, I must 
say, he takes no great pains to find her. He did look for her 
a little, I believe, after he was sick in New York; but he did 
it more to divert his mind from a very mortifying disappoint- 
ment than from any affection he felt for her, and it was this 
which prompted him to go to New York at all." 

‘‘What disappointment?" Marian asked faintly, and affect- 
ing to be embarrassed, Isabel replied : 

“It would be unbecoming in me to say what the nature of 
it was, and I referred to it thoughtlessly. Pray forget it. Miss 
Grey"; and she turned the leaves of a handsomely bound 
volume lying on the table with well-feigned modesty. 

Marian understood her at once, and she was glad that Isabel 
was too intent upon an engraving to observe her agitation. 
Notwithstanding what Alice said, Frederic had offered him- 
self to Isabel, and her refusal had sent him to New York, 
where he hoped to forget his mortification, and where sick- 
ness had overtaken him. In the kindness of her heart, Isabel 
had come to him, and the words of affection which she had 
heard her speak to Frederic were prompted by pity, rather 
than love, as she then supposed. And after Isabel had left 
him, he had looked for her merely by way of excitement, and 
not because he cared to find her. Such were the thoughts 
which flashed upon Marian's mind, and destroyed at once her 
half-formed resolution of telling Frederic that night. She 
did not know Isabel, and she could not understand why she 
should be guilty of a falsehood to her — a perfect stranger. 

Frederic had returned from the city earlier than was his 
custom, for he usually spent the entire day; but there was 
•something now to draw him home besides the blind girl, and 
he was conscious of quickening his footsteps as he drew near 
his house, and of watching eagerly for the flutter of a mourn- 
ing robe, or the sight of a sunny face, which, he knew, would 
smile a welcome. 

He heard her voice in the parlor, and ere he was aware 
of it he stood in the presence of Isabel. Narrowly Marian 
watched him, marveling somewhat at his perfect self-posses- 
sion; for Isabel was to him an object of such indifference that 
he experienced far less emotion in meeting her than in speak- 
ing to Marian Grey, and asking if she had been lonely. 

“You men are so vain," said Isabel with a toss of her head, 
“and think we miss you so much. Now, I'll venture to say 
Miss Grey has not thought of you in all day. Why should 
she?" 


MARIAN GREY 


199 


^'Why shouldn’t she?” asked Frederic, giving to Marian a 
smile which sent the hot blood tingling to her finger tips. 

^Why shouldn’t she !” returned Isabel, ''just as though we 
girls ever think of married men. By the way, have you heard 
anything definite from Mrs. Raymond, since she left you so 
suddenly in New York, or have you given up the search?” 

Marian pitied Frederic then, he turned so white; and she 
almost hated Isabel, as she saw the malicious triumph in her 
eye. Breathlessly, too, she awaited the answer, which was: 

"I shall never abandon the search until I find her, or know 
certainly that she is dead. I went to the place where she used 
to live, not long ago.” 

"Indeed ! What did you learn ?” and a part of Isabel’s as- 
surance left her, for she felt that this searching for his wife 
was a reality with him; while Marian’s heart grew hopeful 
and warm again, as she listened to Frederic Raymond telling 
Isabel Huntington of that dear old room which had been her 
home so long. 

"I can’t conceive what made her run away,” said Isabel, 
fixing her large, glittering eyes upon Frederic, who coolly re- 
plied, "I can,” and then turning to Marian he abruptly com- 
menced a conversation upon an entirely different subject. 

Biting her lip with vexation, Isabel rose to go, saying she 
should expect to see Miss Grey at her own house, and that she 
hoped she would sometime bring Mr. Raymond with her. 

"You need not be afraid to come,” she continued, addressing 
herself to him, "for everybody knows you have a wife, conse- 
quently your coming will create no scandal concerning your- 
self and mother!” and with a hateful laugh she swept 
haughtily down the walk. 

From this time forth Isabel was a frequent visitor at River- 
side, where she always managed to say something which seri- 
ously affected Marian’s peace of mind and led her to distrust 
the man who was beginning to feel far more interest in the 
Marian found than in the Marian lost. This the quick-sighted 
Isabel saw, and, while her bosom rankled with envy toward 
her rival, she exulted in the thought that love her as he might 
he dared not tell her of his love, for the barrier a living wife 
had built between the two. Though professing the utmost re- 
gard for Miss Grey she did not hesitate to speak against her 
when an opportunity occurred, but her shafts fell harmlessly, 
for where Marian was known she was esteemed, and the wily 
woman gave up the contest at last and waited anxiously to see 
the end. 

Toward the last of October, Ben, who was now a petty 


200 


MARIAN GREY 


grocer in a New England village, came to Riverside for the 
first time since Marian’s residence there. Never before had 
he appeared so happy, and his honest face was all aglow with 
his delight at seeing Marian at last where she belonged. 

‘You fit in like an odd scissor,” he said to her when they 
were alone. “Ain’t it ’most time to tell?” 

“Not yet,” returned Marian. “I would rather wait until I 
am back at Redstone Hall. We are going there next month, 
and then, too, I wish I knew how much of Isabel’s insinua- 
tions to believe.” 

“Isabel be hanged,” said Ben. “She lied, I know, and 
mebby that letter was some of her devilment.” 

Marian replied by telling him of the letter from Sarah 
Green, and asking if he could explain it. But it was all a 
mystery to him, and he puzzled his brain with it for a long 
time, deciding at last that it might have come from some of 
her Kentucky acquaintances who chanced to be in New York 
and sent it just for mischief. 

“But they overshot the mark,” said he. “You ain’t dead by 
a great sight.” 

Ben went away happy over his visit, and the others were 
soon busy in joyful anticipations of a speedy removal to 
Kentucky, for Frederic, was going earlier this season than 
usual, and the tenth of November was appointed for them to 
%tart. If they met with no delays they would reach Redstone 
Hall on the anniversary of Marian’s bridal, and to her it 
seemed meet that on this day of all others she should return 
again to her old home, and she wondered if Frederic, too, 
would think of it or send one feeling of regret after his miss- 
ing bride. He did remember it, for the November days were 
always fraught with memories of the past. This year, how- 
ever, there was a difference, for though he thought much of 
Marian Lindsey, it was not as he had thought of her before, 
and he was conscious of a most unaccountable sensation of 
satisfaction in knowing that even if she could not go with him 
to Kentucky, her place would be tolerably well filled by 
Marian Grey! 


CHAPTER XXIII 


REDSTONE HALL 

News had been received at Redstone Hall, that the family 
would be there on the thirteenth; but Frederic's coming home 
was a common occurrence now, and did not create as great a 
sensation among his servants as it once had done. Still it was 
an event of considerable importance, particularly as he was 
to bring with him a new governess, who, judging from his 
apparent anxiety to have everything in order, was a person of 
more distinction than the prosy Mrs. Jones, or even the bril- 
liant Isabel. Old Dinah accordingly worked herself up to her 
usual pitch of excitement, and then, long before it was time, 
started off her spouse, who was to meet his master at Big 
Spring station, and who waited there impatiently at least an 
hour ere the whistle and smoke in the distance announced the 
arrival of the train. 

‘We are here at last," said Frederic, when they stopped 
before the depot; and he touched the arm of Marian, who sat 
leaning against a window, her head bent down, and her 
thoughts in such a wild tumult that she scarcely comprehended 
what she was doing or where she was. 

During the entire journey she had labored under the high- 
est excitement, which manifested itself sometimes in snatches 
of merry songs, sometimes in laughter almost hysterical, and 
again, when no one saw her, in floods of tears, which failed to 
cool her feverish impatience. It seemed to her she could not 
wait, and she counted every milestone, while her breath came 
faster and faster as she knew they were almost there. With 
a shudder she glanced at the clump of trees under whose 
shadow she had hidden five years before, and those who no- 
ticed her face as she passed out marveled at its deathly pallor. 

Marian did not try to conceal her delight, and Frederic 
watched her wonderingly, as with glowing cheeks and beam- 
ing eyes she looked first from one window and then from the 
other, the color deepening on her face and the pallor in- 
creasing about her mouth, as waymark after waymark was 
passed and recognized. 

“You seem very much excited," he said to her at last; and, 
assuming as calm a manner as possible, she replied: 

“For years back the one cherished object of my life was to 
Marian Grey 201 


202 


MARIAN GREY 


visit Kentucky ; and now that I am really here, I am so glad ! 
oh, so glad!’' and Frederic could see the gladness shining in 
her eyes, and making her so wondrously beautiful to look 
upon that he was sorry when the twilight shadows began to 
fall, and partially obscured his vision. 

‘There is the house,” he said, pointing to the chimneys, just 
discernible above the trees. 

But Marian had seen them first, and when as they turned a 
corner the entire building came in view, she sank back upon 
the cushion, dizzy and sick with the thoughts which came 
crowding so fast upon her. The day had been soft and balmy, 
and mingled with the gathering darkness was the yellow, hazy 
light the sun of the Indian summer often leaves upon the 
hills. The early mist lay white upon the river, while here and 
there a shower of leaves came rustling down from the tall 
trees which grew in such profusion around the old stone 
house. And Marian saw everything — heard everything — and 
when the horses’ hoofs struck upon the bridge, where once they 
fancied she had stood and plunged into eternity, an icy chill 
ran through her frame, depriving her of the power to speak or 
move. Through the dim twilight she saw the dusky forms 
gathered expectantly around the cabin doors — saw the full 
rounded figure of Dinah on the piazza — saw the vine- 
wreathed pillar where five years ago that very night she had 
weaned with a breaking heart and wept her passionate adieu to 
the man who, sitting opposite to her now, little dreamed of 
what was passing in her mind. In a distant hemp field she 
heard the song some negroes sang returning from their labor, 
and as she listened to the plaintive music, her tears began to 
flow, it seemed so natural — so much like the olden time. 

Suddenly as they drew nearer and the song of the negroes 
ceased, the stillness was broken by the deafening yell which 
Bruno, from his cage, sent up. His voice had been the last to 
bid the runaway good-by, and it was the first to welcome her 
back again. With a stifled sob of joy too deep for utterance she 
drew her veil still closer over her face, and when at last they 
stopped and the light from the hall shone out upon her, she 
sat in the corner of the carriage motionless and still. 

“Come, Miss Grey,” said Frederic, when Alice had been 
safely deposited and was folded to Dinah’s bosom, “come. 
Miss Grey, are you sleeping ?” and he touched the hand which 
lay cold and lifeless upon her lap. “She has fainted,” he 
cried. “The journey and excitement have overtaxed her 
strength,” and, taking her in his arms as if she had been a 
little child, he bore her into the house and up to her own 


MARIAN GREY 


203 


chamber, for he rightly guessed that she would rather be there 
when she returned to consciousness. 

Laying her upon the lounge he removed her bonnet and veil, 
and then kneeling beside her, looked wistfully into her face 
which in its helplessness seemed more beautiful than ever. - 

*‘Has she come to yet asked the puffing Dinah, appearing 
at the door. “It’s narves what ailed her, I reckon.” 

Frederic knew that his services were no longer needed, and, 
after glancing about the room and seeing that everything was 
right, he went downstairs, leaving Marian to the care of 
Dinah, who, as her patient began to show signs of returning 
consciousness, undressed her as soon as possible and placed 
her in the bed, herself sitting by and bathing her face and 
hands in camphor and cologne. The fainting fit had passed 
away, but it was succeeded by a feeling of such delicious 
languor that for a long time Marian lay perfectly still, think- 
ing how nice it was to be again in her old room with Dinah 
sitting by, and once as the hard, black hand rested on her 
forehead, she took it between her own, murmuring involun- 
tarily, “Dear Aunt Dinah, I thank you so much.” 

“Blessed lamb,” whispered the old lady, “they told her my 
name, I ’spect. ’Pears like she’s nigher to me than strangers 
mostly is,” and she smoothed lovingly the bright hair floating 
over the pillow. 

Twice that evening there came up the stairs a cautious step 
which stopped always at that door, and Dinah, as often as she 
answered the gentle knock, came back to Marian and said, 
“It’s marster axin’ is you any wus.” 

“Tell him I am only tired, not sick,” Marian would say, and, 
turning on her pillow, she wept great tears of joy to think 
that Frederic should thus care for her. 

The rosy dawn was just stealing into the room, next morn- 
ing, when Marian awoke with a vague, uncertain feeling as to 
where she was, or what had happened. Ere long, however, 
she remembered it all ; and, stepping upon the floor, she glided 
to the window, to feast her eyes once more upon her home. 
Before her lay the garden, and, though the November frosts 
had marred its summer glory, it was still beautiful to her; 
and, hastily dressing herself, she went forth to visit her olden 
haunts, strolling leisurely on until she reached a little summer 
house which had been built since she was there. Over the 
door were some pencil marks, in Frederic’s handwriting ; and, 
though the rains had partly washed the letters away, there 
were still enough remaining for her to know that “Marian 
Lindsey” had been written there. 


204 


MARIAN GREY 


has sometimes thought of me/^ she said; and she was 
about entering the arbor, when there arose upon the air a 
terrific yell, which, had she been an intruder, would have sent 
her flying from the spot. But she did not even tremble, and 
she waited fearlessly the approach of the huge creature, 
which, bristling with rage, came tearing down the graveled 
walk, his eyeballs glowing like coals of fire, and his head low- 
ered as if ready for attack. 

Bruno was still on guard, and when, in the distance, he 
caught a sight of Marian, he started with a lionlike bound, 
which soon brought him near to the brave girl, who calmly 
watched his coming, and, when he was close upon her, said to 
him : 

^'Good old Bruno! Don’t you know me, Bruno?” 

At the first sound of her voice, the fire left the mastiff’s 
eye, for he, too, caught the tone which had once startled Alice, 
and which puzzled Frederic every day; still, he was not quite 
assured, and he came rushing on, while she continued speak- 
ing gently to him. With a bound, half playful, half ferocious, 
he sprang upon her, and, catching him around the neck, she 
passed her hand caressingly over his shaggy mane, saying to 
him softly: 

"‘I am Marian, Bruno 1 Do you know me ?” 

Then, indeed, he answered her — not with a human tongue, 
it is true; but she understood his language well, and by the 
low, peculiar cry of joy he gave as he crouched upon the 
ground, she knew that she was recognized. Of all who had 
loved her at Redstone Hall, none remembered her save the 
noble dog, who, now as a lamb, licked her face, her hair, her 
hands, her dress, her feet ; while all the time his body quivered 
with the intense delight he could not speak. 

At last as she knelt down beside him, and laid her cheek 
against his neck, he bent his head, and gave forth a deep, pro- 
longed howl, which was answered at a little distance by a cry 
of horror, and, turning quickly, Marian saw Frederic hasten- 
ing toward the spot, his face pale as ashes, and his whole ap- 
pearance indicative of alarm. He had been aroused from 
sleep by the yell which Bruno gave when he first caught sight 
of Marian, and ere he had time to think what it could be, 
Alice knocked at his door, exclaiming : 

‘‘Oh, Frederic, Miss Grey, I am sure, has gone into the 
garden, and Bruno is not yet secured. I heard him bark just 
like he did last year when he mangled black Andy so. What 
if he should tear Miss Grey?” 

Frederic waited for no more, but, dressing himself quickly^ 


MARIAN GREY 


205 


he hastened out, sickening with fear, as he came upon the 
fresh tracks the dog had made when going down the walk. 
He saw Marian’s dress, and through the lattice he caught a 
sight of Bruno. 

^'He has her down! He is drinking her life-blood!” he 
thought; and for an instant the pulsations of his heart stood 
still, nor did they resume their wonted beat even after he 
saw the attitude of Marian Grey, and his terrible watchdog, 
Bruno. 

^^Marian!” he began, for he could not be formal then. 
‘‘Marian! leave him, I entreat you. He is cruelly savage 
with strangers.” 

“But, I have tamed him, you see,” she answered, winding 
her arms still closer around his neck, while he licked again 
her face and hair. 

Wonder ingly Frederic looked on, and all the while there 
came to him no thought that the two had met before — that the 
hand patting so fondly Bruno’s head had fed him many a time 
— and that ’mid all the changes which five years had made, the 
sagacious animal had recognized his mistress and playmate, 
Marian Lindsey. 

“It must be that you can win all hearts,” he said, watching 
her admiringly, and marveling at her secret power. 

Shaking back her sunny curls, and glancing upward into 
his face, Marian answered involuntarily: 

“No, not all. There is one I would have given worlds to 
win, but it cast me off, just when I needed comfort the most.” 

She spoke impulsively, and as she spoke there arose within 
her the wish that he, like Bruno, might know her then and 
there. But he did not. He only remembered what Will Gor- 
don had said of her hopeless attachment, and her apparent 
confession of the same to him smote heavily upon his heart, 
though why he, a married man, should care he could not tell. 
He didn’t really care, he thought; he only pitied her, and by 
way of encouragement he said: “Even that may yet be 
won”; and while he said it, there came over him a sensation 
of dreariness, as if the winning of that heart would neces- 
sarily take from him something which was becoming more 
and more essential to his happiness. 

Their conversation was here interrupted by Josh, who was 
Bruno’s keeper, and had come to chain him for the day. 
Marian knew him at once, though he had changed from the 
short, thick lad of twelve to the taller youth of seventeen; 
and when, as he saw her position with Bruno, he exclaimed: 
“Goo-goo-good Lord!” she turned her beaming face toward 


206 


MARIAN GREY 


him and answered laughingly: ‘‘I have a secret for charm- 
ing dogs.” 

Involuntarily Josh's old cloth cap came off, while over his 
countenance there flitted an expression as if that voice were 
not entirely strange to him. Touching his master's arm, and 
pointing to the kneeling maiden, he stammered out : 

‘^Ha-ha-hain't I s-s-een her afore?” 

think not,” answered Frederic, and with a doubtful shake 
of his head, Josh attempted to lead Bruno away. 

But Bruno would not move, and he clung so obstinately to 
Marian that she arose, and, patting his side, said play- 
fully : 

'T shall be obliged to go with him, I guess. Lead the way, 
boy.” 

With eyes protruding like saucers. Josh turned back, fol- 
lowed by Marian and Bruno, the latter of whom offered no re- 
sistance when his mistress bade him enter his kennel, though 
he made wondrous efforts to escape when he saw that she 
was leaving him. 

‘Tn the name of the Lord,” exclaimed Hetty, shading her 
eyes with her hand, to be sure she was right, ‘flf thar ain't 
the young lady shettin' up the dog. I never knowed the like o' 
that.” 

Then as Marian came toward the kitchen, she continued: 
‘‘'Pears like I've seen her somewhar.” 

“Ye-ye-yes,” chimed in Josh, who had walked faster than 
Marian. “Who-o-oo is she, Hetty?” 

Marian by this time had reached the door, where she stood 
smiling pleasantly upon the blacks, but not daring to call them 
by name until she saw Dinah, who courtesied low, and coming 
forward asked: ‘Ts you better this mornin'?” 

“Yes, quite well, thank you. Are these your companions?” 
said Marian, anxious for an opportunity to talk with her old 
friends. 

“Yes, honey,” answered Dinah. “This is Hetty, and this 
is Lyd, and this — ” 

She did not finish the sentence, for Hetty, who had been 
earnestly scanning Marian's features, grasped her dress, say- 
ing: “Whar was you born?” 

“Jest like them Higginses,” muttered Dinah. “In course. 
Miss Grey don’t want to be twitted with bein' a Yankee the 
fust thing.” 

But Hetty had no intentions of casting reflections upon the 
place of Marian's birth. Like Josh she had detected some- 
thing familiar in the young girl's face, and twice she had 


MARIAN GREY 


207 


swept her hand across her eyes to clear away the mist and see 
if possible what it was which puzzled her so much. 

“I was born a great many miles from here/^ said Marian, 
and ere Hetty could reply, Josh, whose gaze had all the time 
been riveted upon her, stuttered out, ‘‘Sh-sh-she is-s-s-s like 
M-m-m-Miss Marian.” 

Yes, this was the likeness they had seen, but Marian would 
rather the first recognition should come from another source, 
and she hastened to reply: ^‘Oh, Mrs. Raymond, you mean. 
Alice noticed it when I first went to Riverside. You suppose 
your young mistress dead, do you not?” 

Instantly Dinah’s woolen apron was called into use, while 
she said: ‘Yes, poor dear lamb, if thar’s any truth in them 
Scripter sayin’s, she’s a burnin’ and a shining light in de king- 
dom come,” and the old negress launched forth into a long 
eulogy in the midst of which Frederic appeared in quest of 
Marian. 

“I am listening to praises of your wife,” she said, and there 
was a mischievous triumph in her eye as she saw how his 
forehead flushed, for he was beginning to be slightly annoyed 
when she, as she often had done, alluded to his wife. 

Why need she thrust that memory continually upon him? 
Was it not enough for him to know that somewhere in the 
world was a wife, and that he would rather hear anyone else 
Speak of her than the bright-haired Marian Grey? 

“Dinah can be very eloquent at times,” he said, “but come 
with me to Alice. She has been sadly frightened on your ac- 
count,” and he led the way to the piazza, where the blind girl 
was waiting for them. 

Breakfast being over, Marian and Alice sought the parlor, 
where, instead of the old-fashioned instrument which the for- 
mer remembered as standing there, she found a new and 
beautifully carved piano. 

“Frederic ordered this on purpose to please you,” whispered 
Alice. “He said it was a shame for you to play on the other 
rattling thing.” 

This was sufficient to call out Marian’s wildest strains, and, 
as a matter of course, the entire band of servants gathered 
about the door to listen, just as they once had done when the 
performer was Isabel. As was quite natural, they yielded their 
preference to the last comer, old Hetty acknowledging that 
even “Miss Beatrice couldn’t beat that.” 

It would seem that Marian Grey was destined to take all 
hearts by storm, for ere the day was done her virtues had been 
discussed in the kitchen and by the cabin fire, while even the 


208 


MARIAN GREY 


gallant Josh, at his work in the hemp field, attempted a song, 
which he meant to be laudatory of her charms, but as he was 
somewhat lacking in poetical talent, his music ran finally into 
the well-known ballad of ^‘Mary Ann,'' which suited his pur- 
pose quite as well. 

Meantime, Marian, stealing away from Alice, quietly ex- 
plored every nook and corner of the house, opening first the 
little box where she once had kept her mother's hair. It was 
there just as she had left it, and, kissing it reverently, she 
placed it by the side of her silken locks. 

She was about to leave the room, when Frederic came in, 
appearing somewhat surprised to find her there, sitting in his 
chair as if she had a perfect right to do so. At first she was 
too much confused to apologize, but she managed at last to 
say: 

'This cozy room attracted me, and I took the liberty to 
enter. You have a very fine library, I think; some of the 
books must have been your father's." 

It was the books, of course, which she came to see, and sitting 
down opposite to her Frederic talked with her about them 
until she chanced to spy a portrait, put away behind the pon- 
derous sofa, with its face turned to the wall. 

"Whose is it?" she asked, directing Frederic's attention to 
it. "Whose is it, and why is it hidden there?" 

Instantly the young man's face grew dark, and Marian 
trembled beneath the glance he bent upon her. Then the cold, 
hard look passed away and he replied: 

"It is an unfinished portrait of Mrs. Raymond, taken from 
a daguerreotype of her when she was only fifteen. But the 
artist did not understand his business, and it looks even worse 
than the original." 

This last was spoken bitterly, and Marian felt the hot blood 
rising in her cheeks. 

"I never even told Alice of it," he continued, "but put it 
away in here, where I hide all my secrets." 

He glanced at the private drawer — so did Marian; but she 
was too intent upon seeing a portrait which could look worse 
than the daguerreotype to heed aught else, and she said en^ 
treatingly: "Oh, Mr. Raymond, please let me see it, won't 
you? I lived in New York a long time, you know, and per- 
haps I may have met her, or even know her under some other 
name? May I see it?" and she was advancing toward the 
sofa, when Frederic seized both her hands, and holding them 
in his, said, half hesitatingly, half mournfully: "Miss Grey, 
you must excuse me for refusing your request. Poor Marian 


MARIAN GREY 


209 


was far from being handsome, nay, I sometimes thought her 
positively ugly. She is certainly so in the portrait, and a 
creature as highly gifted with beauty as you, might laugh at 
her plain features, and if you did — ” He paused a moment, 
and Marian's eyelashes fell beneath his steady gaze. ‘‘And if 
you did,” he continued, “I never could like you again, for she 
was my wife, and as such must be respected !” 

Marian could not tell why it was, but Frederic's words and 
manner affected her painfully. She half feared she had of- 
fended him by her eagerness to see the portrait, while mingled 
with this was a strange feeling of pity for poor, plain Marian 
Lindsey, as she probably looked upon the canvas, and a deep 
respect for Frederic, who would, if possible, protect her from 
even the semblance of insult. Her heart was already full, 
and, releasing her hands from Frederic’s, she resumed her 
seat, and leaning her head upon the writing desk, burst into 
tears, while Frederic paced the room, wondering what, under 
the circumstances, he was expected to do. He knew just how 
to soothe Alice, but Marian Grey was a different individual. 
He could not take her in his lap and kiss away the tears, but 
he could at least speak to her; and he did at last, laying his 
hand as near the little white one grasping the table edge as he 
dared, and saying very gently: 

“If I spoke very harshly to you. Miss Grey, I am sorry — 
very sorry; I really did not intend to make you cry. I only 
felt that I could not bear to hear you, of all others, laugh at 
my poor Marian, and so refused your request. Will you for- 
give me?” 

And by some chance, as he looked another way, his hand did 
touch hers, and held it, too ! He did not think that an insult 
to the portrait at all, nor yet of the supposed original; for 
there was something in the way the snowy fingers twined 
themselves around his, which drove all other ideas from his 
mind, and for one brief instant he was supremely happy. 

From the first he had thought of Marian Grey as a sweet, 
beautiful young creature, whom some man would one day de- 
light to call his own; but the possibility of loving her himself 
had never occurred to him until now, w'hen, like a flash of 
lightning, the conviction burst upon him that, spite of Marian 
Lindsey — spite of his marriage vow — spite of the humble 
origin which would once have shocked his pride — and spite of 
everything, Marian Grey had won a place in his heart from 
which he must dislodge her. But, how? He could not send 
her away, for she seemed a part of himself, and he could not 
live without her ; but he would stifle his newborn love, he said. 


210 


MARIAN GREY 


and as the best means of doing so, he would talk to her often 
of his wife as a person who certainly had an existence, and 
would some day come back to him; so, when Marian replied: 

feared you were angry with me, Mr. Raymond; I would 
not have asked to see the portrait had I supposed you really 
cared,'’ he drew his chair at a respectable distance and said: 

cannot explain the matter to you, but if you knew the whole 
sad story of my marriage, and the circumstances which led to 
it, you would not wonder that I am somewhat sensitive upon 
the subject. I used to think beauty the principal thing I 
should require in a wife, but poor Marian had none of that, 
and were you to see the wretched likeness, you would receive 
altogether too unfavorable an impression of her ; for, notwith- 
standing her plain face, she was far too good for me." 

''Do you really think so ?" was Marian's eager exclamation, 
while close behind it was the secret struggling hard to escape, 
but she forced it back, until such time as she should be con- 
vinced that Frederic loved her as Marian Grey, and would 
hail with delight the news that she was indeed his wife. 

He seemed surprised at her question, but he answered, un- 
hesitatingly : 

"Yes; far too good for me." 

"And do you really wish to find her?" was Marian's next 
question, which brought a flush to Frederic's face, and caused 
him to hesitate a little ere he replied. 

Yesterday he would have said yes at once, but since coming 
into that library he had discovered that the finding of his wife 
would be less desirable than before. But it should not be so. 
He would crush every thought or feeling which detracted in 
the least from his late interest in Marian Lindsey, and with a 
great effort he said: 

"I really wish to find her"; adding, as he saw a peculiar 
expression flit over Marian's face: "Wouldn’t you, too, be 
better pleased if Redstone Hall had a mistress?" 

"Yes, provided that mistress were your wife, Marian Lind- 
sey," was the ready answer; and, looking into her face, Fred- 
eric was conscious of an uneasy sensation, for Miss Grey's 
words would indicate that the presence of his wife would give 
her real pleasure. 

Of course, then, she did not care for him, as he cared for 
her; and why should she? He asked himself this question 
many a time after the chair opposite him was vacant, and she 
had left him there alone. Why should she, when she came to 
him with the knowledge that he was ajready bound to an- 
other? She might not have liked him perhaps had he been 


MARIAN GREY 


211 


free; though, in that case, he could have won her love, and 
compelled her to forget the man who did not care for her. 
Taking the high-backed chair she had just vacated, he rested 
his elbow upon the table, and tried to fancy that Marian Lind- 
sey had never crossed his path, and Marian Grey had never 
loved another. It was a pleasant picture he drew of himself 
were Marian Grey his wife, and his heart fairly bounded as he 
thought of her stealing to his side, and placing upon his arm 
those little soft white hands of her, while her blue eyes looked 
into his own, and her rosebud lips called him ^‘Husband 
and, as he thought, it seemed to him more and more that it 
must one day be so. She would be his at last, and the sun of 
his domestic bliss would shine upon him all the brighter for 
the dreary darkness which had overshadowed him so long. 
From this dream of happiness there came ere long a waking, 
and burying his face in his hands he moaned aloud : “It can- 
not be, and the hardest part of all to bear is the wretched 
thought that but for my dastardly, unmanly act, it might, 
perhaps, have been — but now, never ! never ! Oh, Marian 
Grey ! Marian Grey ! I would that we had never met I” 

“Frederic, didn’t you hear me coming? I made a heap of 
noise,” said a voice close to his side, and Alice’s arm was 
thrown across his neck. 

She had heard all he was saying, but she did not compre- 
hend it until he muttered the name of Marian Grey, and then 
the truth flashed upon her. 

“Poor Frederic,” she said soothingly, “I pity you so much, 
for though it is wicked, I am sure you cannot help it.” 

“Help what?” he asked, rather impatiently, for this one 
secret he hoped to bury from the whole world, but the blind 
girl had discovered it readily, and she answered unhesi- 
tatingly : 

“Can’t help loving Marian Grey. I’ve been fearful you 
would,” she continued, as he made no reply. “I did not see 
how you could well help it, either, she is so beautiful and 
good, and every night I pray that if our own Marian is really 
dead, God will let us know.” 

This was an entire change in Alice. Hitherto she had 
pleaded a living Marian — now she suggested one deceased, 
but Frederic repelled the thought at once. 

Marian was not dead, he said, and though he admired Miss 
Grey, he had no right to love her. He didn’t intend to, either, 
and if Alice had discovered anything, he trusted she would 
forget it. 

And this was all the satisfaction he would give the little 


212 


MARIAN GREY 


girl, who, feeling that he would rather be alone, turned away, 
leaving him again with his unhappy thoughts. 

That night he joined the young girls in the parlor and com- 
pelled himself to listen while Marian made the old walls echo 
with her ringing, merry music. But he would not look at her, 
nor watch her snowy fingers sweeping over the keys, lest the^ 
should make worse havoc with his heart-strings than they had 
already done. At an early hour he sought his chamber, where 
the livelong night he fought manfully with the love which, 
now that he acknowledged its existence, grew rapidly in inr 
tensity and strength. It was not like the love he felt for 
Isabel — it was deeper, purer, more absorbing, and what was 
stranger far than all, he could not feel that it was wicked, and 
he trembled when he thought how hardened he had become. 

The next day, which was the Sabbath, he determined to see 
as little of Marian as possible, but when at the breakfast table 
she asked him in her usual frank, open-hearted way to go with 
her to church, he could not refuse, and he went, feeling a glow 
of pride at the sensation he knew she was creating, and won- 
dering why she should be so excited. 

‘T cannot keep the secret much longer,’’ Marian thought, aj, 
she looked upon the familiar faces of her friends, and longed 
to hear them call her by her real name. will at least tell Alice 
who I am, and if she can convince me that Frederic would be 
glad, I will perhaps explain to him.” 

When church was out, Mrs. Rivers, who still lived at her 
father’s pressed forward for an introduction, and after it was 
over, whispered a few words to Frederic, who replied: "‘Not 
in the least,” so decidedly that Marian heard him, and won- 
dered what Agnes’ remark could have been. She was not 
long left in doubt, for as they were riding home, Frederic 
turned to her and said : “Mrs. Rivers thinks you look like my 
wife.” 

Marian’s cheeks were scarlet, as she replied: 

“Josh and Hetty thought so, too, and it is possible there may 
be a resemblance.” 

“Not the slightest,” returned Frederic, half vexed that any^ 
one should presume to liken the beautiful girl at his side id 
one as plain as he had always considered Marian Lindsey tc 
be. 

Leaning back in the carriage, he relapsed into a thoughtful 
mood, which was interrupted once by Marian’s asking if he be^ 
lieved he should know his wife in case he met her unex- 
pectedly. 

“Know her? Yes — from all the world!” was the hasty 


MARIAN GREY 


213 


answer; and, wrapping his shawl still closer about him, Fred- 
eric did not speak again until they stopped at their own door. 

That night, as Marian sat with Alice in their chamber, she 
said to the little girl : 

'If you could have any wish gratified which you chose to 
make, what would it be?'^ 

For an instant Alice hesitated — then her eyes filled with 
tears, and, winding her arms around her teacher's neck, she 
whispered : 

"At first I thought I'd rather have my sight — but only for 
a moment — and then I wished, if Marian were not dead, she 
would come back to us, for I'm afraid Frederic is getting bad 
again, though he cannot help it, I’m sure." 

"What do you mean?" Marian asked, and Alice replied: 

"Don't you know ? Can't you guess ? Don’t you hear it in 
his voice when he speaks to you?" 

Marian made no response, and Alice continued: 

"Frederic seems determined to love everybody better than 
our Marian, and, though I love you more than I can tell, I 
want her to come back so much." 

"And if you knew she were coming, when would you rather 
it should be?" asked Marian, and asked replied: 

"Now — tonight; but as that is impossible, I’d be satisfied 
with Christmas. Yes, on the whole, I’d rather it would be 
then; I should call her our Christmas Gift, and it would be 
the dearest, sweetest one that I could have." 

"Darling Alice," thought Marian, "your wish shall be grati- 
fied." 

And, kissing the blind girl affectionately, she resolved that 
on the coming Christmas, one at least of the inmates of Red- 
stone Hall should know that Marian Grey was only another 
name for the runaway Marian Lindsey. 

One by one the bright November days went by and the hazy 
Indian summer light faded from the Kentucky hills, where 
now the December sun was shining cold and clear. And as 
the weeks passed away, there hung over Redstone Hall a 
dark, portentous cloud, and they who had waited so eagerly 
the coming of the holidays trembled lest the merry Christmas 
song should prove a funeral dirge for the pet and darling of 
them all. Alice was dying, so the physician said, while Dinah, 
too, had prophesied that ere the New Year came the eyes 
which never in this world had looked upon the light would be 
opened to the glories of the better land. 

For many weary days and nights the fever flame had burned 
in the young girl’s veins, but it had left her now, and like a 


214 


MARIAN GREY 


fragile lily she lay among her pillows, talking of heaven and 
the grave as something very near to her. Noiselessly Marian 
trod across the floor, holding back her breath and speaking in 
soft whispers, lest she should disturb the little sufferer whose 
side she never for a moment left except to take the rest she 
absolutely needed. Frederic, too, often shared her vigils, feel- 
ing almost as anxious for one as for the other. Both were 
very dear to him, and Marian, as she witnessed his tender 
care of Alice, and his anxiety for herself lest her strength 
should be overtaxed, felt more and more that he was worthy 
of her love. Alice, too, appreciated his goodness, as she had 
never done before, and once when he sat alone with her, and 
Marian was asleep, she passed her hand caressingly over her 
face and said: 

“Dear Frederic, you have been so kind to me, that I am 
sure God has some good in store for you.'’ 

Then as she remembered what would probably be the great- 
est good to him, she continued : “I know what’s in your heart, 
and I pity you so much, but there is light ahead, Fm sure. 
IVe thought strange things, and dreamed strange dreams since 
I lay here so sick, and as I once was certain Marian was alive, 
so now Fm almost certain that she’s dead.” 

“Hush, Alice, hush,” said Frederic, laying his head upon the 
pillow beside her, but Alice did not heed him, and she con- 
tinued : 

“I never saw her in this world, and maybe I shan’t know 
her right away, though next to mother, I reckon, she’ll be the 
first to welcome me to heaven, if she’s there, and I know she 
is, or we should have heard from her. I shall tell her of her 
old home, Frederic — tell her how we mourned for her when 
we thought that she was dead. I don’t know what it was that 
made her go away, but I shall tell her you repented of the act, 
and how you looked for her so long, and that if you had found 
her you would have loved her sure. That will not be a lie, 
will it, Frederic?” 

“No, darling, no,” was the faintly-spoken answer, and Alice 
continued : 

“Then, when I have explained all, Fll steal away from 
heaven, just long enough to come and tell you she is there. 
You’ll be in the library, maybe, and I reckon ’twill be dark, 
though if you’d any rather. I’ll come in the daytime, and when 
you feel there’s somebody near, somebody you can’t see, you 
may know that it is me come to say you are free to love the 
other Marian.” 

“Don’t, Alice, don’t,” said Frederic, for it made his heart 


MARIAN GREY 


215 


bleed afresh to hear her talk of what he had no hope would 
ever be. 

But Alice’s faith was stronger, and to Marian Grey she 
sometimes talked in a similar strain, saying: ‘'She knew she 
should meet the other one in heaven,'’ and Marian, while 
listening to her, felt that she must undeceive her. “It may 
possibly make her better,” she thought, and when, at last, the 
Christmas Eve had come, and it was her turn to watch that 
night, she determined to tell her, if she fancied that she had 
strength to bear it. One by one the family servants retired, 
and when at last they were alone, Marian drew her chair close 
to the bed, wondering how she should commence, and what 
effect it would have upon the little sufferer, who ere long 
awoke, and said to her : 

“I’ve been dreaming of Marian, and I thought she looked 
like you do — but she don’t, of course; and I wonder how I’ll 
know her from my mother, for she, too, was young when she 
died. If it were you. Miss Grey, I could tell you so easily, 
for I should look among the brightest angels there, and the 
one who sang the sweetest song and had the fairest face, 
would certainly be Marian Grey; but the other Marian — ^how 
shall I know her — ^think?” 

Leaning forward so that her hot cheek touched the pale one 
of the sick girl, Marian said: 

“Wouldn’t you know her by her voice?” 

“I’m afraid not,” answered Alice; “I thought you were she 
at first when I heard you speak.” 

“How is it now, darling! — ^how is it now?” Marian asked, 
in a voice so tremulous that Alice started, and her white face 
flushed as she replied: “You are not like her now, except at 
times, and then — it’s all so queer. There’s a mystery about 
you. Miss Grey — and it seems sometimes just like I didn't 
know what to think — you puzzle me so 1” 

“Shall I tell you, Alice? Have you strength to hear who 
and what I am ?” Marian asked ; and Alice answered eagerly : 

“Yes — ^tell me — do!” 

“And you’ll promise not to faint, nor scream, nor reveal it 
to anybody, unless I say you may?” 

Alice’s cheek grew paler, and her eyes a deeper brown, as 
she said: 

“It must be something terrible to make me faint or 
scream !” 

“Not terrible, dearest, but strange!” and sitting down 
upon the bed, Marian wound her arm around the little girl. 

It was a hazardous thing, the telling that secret then, but 


216 


MARIAN GREY 


Marian did not realize what she was doing, and in as calm a 
voice as she could command, she began: 

"'People call me Marian Grey, but that is not my 
name 

"Not Marian Grey !” and the brown eyes flashed wonder- 
ingly. ^ "Who are you, then ; Marian what ?” 

Marian did not reply to this question, but said instead: "I 
had seen you before that night at Riverside/' 

"Seen me, where?" and the little figure trembled with an 
indefinable dread of the shock which she instinctively felt 
was awaiting her. 

"I had seen you many times," said Marian; "and that is 
why my voice was familiar. Put your hand upon my face 
again and maybe you will know it." 

"I can't, I can't! You frighten me so!" gasped Alice; and 
Marian continued: 

"I must have changed much in the last five years, for they 
who used to know me have never suspected that I am in their 
midst again — none but Bruno. Do you remember my power 
over him? Bruno and I were playmates together!" 

Marian paused and gazed earnestly at the child, who lay 
panting in her arms, her face upturned and the blind eyes 
fixed upon hers with an intensity she had never before seen 
equaled. In the deep stillness of the room she could hear the 
loud beating of Alice's heart, and see the bedclothes rise and 
fall with every throb. 

"Alice," she said at last, "don't you know me now?" and 
in her voice there was a world of yearning tenderness and 
love. 

"Yes," and over the marble face there shone a smile of al- 
most seraphic sweetness. "You are Marian — my Marian — 
Frederic's Marian — Dinah's Marian — all of us Marian!" and 
with a low, hysterical cry the blind girl crept close to the 
bosom of her long-lost friend. 

Stretching out her feeble arms she wound them around 
Marian's neck, and raising herself upon her elbow, kissed her 
lips, her cheek, her forehead, her hair, whispering all the time : 
"Blessed Marian — precious Marian — beautiful Marian — our 
Marian — Frederic's and mine, and everybody's. Oh, I don't 
want to go to heaven now; I'd rather stay with you. Call 
him — call Frederic, quick, and tell him! Why haven't you 
told him before? Ho, Frederic, come here!" and the 
feeble voice, raised to its highest pitch, went ringing through 
the room and penetrated even to the adjoining chamber, 
where, since Alice's illness, Frederic had slept. 


MARIAN GREY 


217 


‘Alice/’ said Marian, “if you love me, you will not tell him 
now. I am not ready yet.” 

“What if I should die?” Alice asked, and Marian replied: 

“You won’t die. I almost know you won’t. Promise, Alice, 
promise,” she continued, as she heard Frederic’s step in the 
hall without. 

“How can I — ^how can I ? It will choke me to death !” was 
Alice’s answer, and the next moment Frederic had crossed 
the threshold of the door. 

“What is it. Miss Grey?” he asked. “Didn’t you call?” 

“Alice is rather excited, that’s all,” said Marian, “and you 
can go back. We do not wish to disturb you.” 

“Frederic,” came in a faint whisper from the bedside, and 
knowing that further remonstrance was useless, Marian stood 
like a rock, while Frederic advanced toward the child, who 
lay with her head thrown back, the great tears rolling down 
her cheeks, and the great joy of what she had heard, shining 
out all over her little face. 

“Did you want me, birdie ?” he asked, but ere he had ceased 
speaking, Marian was at his side. 

Alice knew that s|ie was there, and she pressed both hands 
upon her lips to force back the secret she had been forbidden 
to divulge. 

“Is she delirious?” Frederic asked, and, shaking her head, 
Alice whispered: “No, no, but happy, so happy. Oh, Fred- 
eric, I don’t want to die ! Must I ? If I take a heap of 
doctor’s stuff, will I get well, think?” 

“I hope so,” said Frederic, his suspicions of insanity rapidly 
increasing. 

“Give me your hand,” she continued, “and yours, too. Miss 
Grey.” 

Both were extended, and, joining them together, she said: 
“Love her, Frederic. Love her all you want to. You may — 
you may. It isn’t wicked. Oh, Marian, Marian!” 

The last word was a whisper, and as it died away, Marian 
seized Frederic’s arm, and said, beseechingly: “Please, leave 
the room, Mr. Raymond. You see she is excited, and I can 
quiet her best alone. Will you go?” 

The brown eyes looked reproachfully at her and entreat- 
ingly at him, but neither heeded the expression, and with a 
feeling that he scarcely understood what the whole proceed- 
ing meant, or why he had been called in if he must be so sum- 
marily dismissed, Frederic went out reluctantly, leaving 
Marian alone with Alice. 

“Why didn’t you let me tell him?” the latter asked, and 


218 


MARIAN GREY 


Marian replied: ‘‘I shall tell him by and by, but I am not 
ready yet, and you must not betray me.’’ 

‘‘I’ll try,” said Alice, “but ’tis so hard, I had to bite my 
tongue to keep the words from coming. Where have you 
been? Why didn’t you come to us before? What makes you 
be Marian Grey so long? How came you so beautiful — so 
grand?” Alice asked, all in the same breath. 

But Marian absolutely refused to answer a question until 
she had become quiet and been refreshed with sleep. 

“All in good time, dearest,” she said; “but you must rest 
now. You are wearing out too fast, and you know you do 
not want to die.” 

This was the right chord to touch, and it had the desired 
effect. 

“Let me ask one question, and say one thing,” said Alice, 
“and I won’t talk another word till morning. When you are 
ready, may I tell Frederic, if I ain’t dead?” 

“Yes, darling,” was the ready answer, and winding her 
arms around Marian’s neck, the blind girl continued : “Isn’t it 
almost morning?” 

“Yes, dear.” 

“And when it is, won’t it be Christmas Day?” 

“Yes, but you asked three questions instead of one.” 

“I know — I know; but what I want to say, is this: I 
wished my Christmas gift might be Marian, and it is. Last 
year it was a beautiful little pony, but you are worth ten hun- 
dred million ponies. Oh, I’m so glad — so glad,” and on the 
childish face there was a look of perfect happiness. 

Even after she shut her eyes and tried to sleep, her lips 
continued to move, and Marian could hear the whispered 
words: “Our own Marian — our blessed Marian.” 

The excitement was too much for Alice, and when next 
morning the physician came, he pronounced her worse than 
she had been the previous night. 

“But I ain’t going to die,” said Alice resolutely; “I can’t 
die now,” and it was this very determination on her part 
which did more to save her life than all the doctor’s drugs or 
Dinah’s wonderful tears. 

For many days she seemed hovering between life and death, 
while Marian never for a moment left her, and Alice was 
more quiet when she was sitting by, holding her feverish 
hand ; she seemed to have lost her desire to tell, for she never 
made any attempt so to do, though she persisted in calling her 
teacher Marian, and a look of pain always flitted over her 
face when she heard her addressed as Miss Grey. Sometimes 


MARIAN GREY 


219 


she would start up, and, winding her arms around her neck, 
would whisper in her ear: ‘‘Are you Marian for sure — our 
Marian I mean?’' 

“Yes, Marian Lindsey sure," would be the answer, and the 
little girl would fall away again into a half unconscious state, 
a smile of joy wreathing her white lips, and an expression of 
perfect peace resting on her face. 

At last, just as the New Year’s morning dawned, she awoke 
from a deep, unbroken sleep, and Marian and Frederic, who 
watched beside her, knew that she was saved. There were 
weeks of convalescence, and Dinah often wondered at Alice’s 
patience in staying so long and so willingly in the chamber 
where she had suffered so much. But to Alice that sick-room 
was a second paradise and Marian the bright angel whose 
presence made all the sunlight of her life. 

Gradually, as she could bear it, Marian told her everything 
which had come to her since she left Redstone Hall, and 
Alice’s eyes grew strangely bright when she heard that the 
bracelet she had always prized so much was made from 
Marian’s hair, and that Ben’s visit to Kentucky, was all a 
plan of his to see if Frederic were married. Greatly was she 
shocked when she heard of the letter which had almost taken 
Marian’s life. 

“Frederic never did that cruel thing," she knew. 

“But ’twas in his handwriting," said Marian, “and until the 
mystery is cleared away, I cannot quite forgive him." 

For a long time Alice sat absorbed in thought, then sud- 
denly starting forward, she cried : “I know, Marian. I know 
now, Isabel did it. I’m sure she did. I remember it all so 
plain." 

“Isabel?" repeated Marian; “how could she? What do you 
mean ?’’ 

“Why," returned Alice, “you say you sent it a few weeks 
after you went away, and I remember so well Frederic’s go- 
ing to Lexington one day, because that was the time it came 
to me that you were not dead. It was the first morning, too, 
that Isabel heard my lessons, and she scolded because I didn’t 
remember quick, when I was thinking all the time of you, and 
my heart was aching so. For some reason, I can’t quite tell 
what, I showed her that note you left for me. You remember 
it; don’t you? It read: 

“Darling Alice ! Precious Alice : If my heart were not 
already broken, it wotfld break in leaving you." 

“Yes, yes; I remember," said Marian, and Alice continued: 


220 MARIAN GREY 


‘^She said your handwriting was queer, when she gave me 
back the note. That evening. Josh came from Frankfort with 
a heap of letters for Frederic, and one of them I know was 
from you. I was standing out under the bog maple tree think- 
ing of you, when Isabel came and asked to take the note again, 
and I let her have it. Ever so long after, I started to go into 
the library, for I heard somebody rustling papers, and I didn't 
know but Dud was doing mischief. Just as I got to the door, 
I heard a voice like Isabel’s, only it sounded scared like, ex- 
claim: Tt is from her, but he shall never see it, never’; or 
something like that, and when I called to her she wouldn’t an- 
swer me until I got close to her, and then she laughed as if 
she was choked, and said she was trying to frighten me. 
Marian, that ‘her’ was you, and the ‘he’ was Frederic. She 
copied his writing, and sent the letter back because she wanted 
Frederic herself.” 

“Could she do such a thing?” said Marian, more to herself 
than to Alice, who replied: 

“She can do anything ; for Dinah says she’s one of the , 

I reckon that I’ll skip that word in there, because it’s almost 
swearing, but it means Satan’s unaccountables,” and Alice’s 
voice dropped to a whisper at what she fancied to be profanity. 

Marian could understand why Isabel should do such a 
wicked thing even better than Alice, and after reflecting upon 
it for a time, she accepted it as a fact, and even suggested the 
possibility of Isabel’s having been the author of the letter 
from Sarah Green. 

“She was ! she was !” cried Alice, starting to her feet. “It’s 
just like her^for she thought Frederic would surely want to 
marry her then. I know she wrote it, and managed to get it to 
New York somehow”; and as is often the case, poor Isabel 
was compelled to bear more than her share of the fraud, for 
Marian, too, believed that she had been in some way impli- 
cated with the letter from Sarah Green. 

“And I may tell Frederic now — mayn’t I?” said Alice. 
“Suppose we set tomorrow, when he’s in the library among his 
letters. He’ll wonder what I’m coming in there for, all 
wrapped up in shawls. But he’ll know plenty quick, for it 
will be just like me to tell it all at once, and he will be so glad. 
Don’t you wish it was tomorrow now?” 

Marian could not say she did, for she had hoped for a more 
decisive demonstration of affection on Frederic’s part ere she 
revealed herself to him, but Alice was so anxious, and had 
waited so patiently, that she at last consented, and when at 
supper she met Frederic as usual, she was conscious of a 


MARIAN GREY 


221 


different feeling toward him than she had ever experienced 
before. He seemed unusually dejected, though exceedingly 
kind to her, talking but little, it is true, but evincing, in various 
ways, the interest he felt in her, and ever asking her to sit 
with him a while ere returning to Alice’s chamber. There 
was evidently something on his mind which he wished to say, 
but whatever it might have been, seven o’clock found it still 
unsaid, and as Alice retired at that hour, Marian arose to go. 

‘‘Must you leave me?” he said, rising, too, and accompany- 
ing her to the door. “Yes, you must!” and Marian little 
guessed the meaning these three words implied. 

She only felt that she was not indifferent to him — ^that the 
story Alice was to tell him on the morrow would be received 
with a quiet kind of happiness at least — ^that he would not bid 
her go away as she once had done before — and with the little 
blind girl, she, too, began to think the morrow would never 
come. 


CHAPTER XXIV 


TELLING FREDERIC 

It was midnight, and from the windows of the library at 
Redstone Hall there shone a single light, its dim rays falling 
upon the haggard face of the weary man who, since parting 
from Marian in the parlor, had sat there just as he was 
sitting now — unmindful of the lapse of time — unmindful of 
everything save the fierce battle he was waging with himself. 
Hour by hour — day by day — week by week, had his love for 
Marian Grey increased, until now he could no more control it 
than he could stay the mighty torrent in its headlong course. 
It was all in vain that he kept or tried to keep Marian Lind- 
sey continually before his mind, saying to himself : ‘‘She is my 
wife — she is alive, and I must not love another.” 

He did not care for Marian Lindsey. He did not wish to 
find her now — he almost hoped he never should, though even 
that would avail him nothing, unless he knew to a certainty 
that she were really dead. Perhaps he never could know, and 
as he thought of the long, dreary years in which he must live 
on with that terrible uncertainty forever haunting him, he 
pressed his hands upon his burning forehead and cried aloud : 
“My punishment is greater than I can bear. Oh, Marian 
Grey, can it be that you, who might have been the angel of my 
life, were sent to avenge the wrongs of that other Marian?” 

He knew it was wicked, this intense, absorbing passion for 
Marian Grey, but he could not feel it so, and he would have 
given half his possessions for the sake of abandoning himself 
for one brief hour to this love — for the sake of seeing her eyes 
of blue meet his with the look he had so often fancied her 
giving to the man she loved. And she loved him! He was 
sure of it 1 He saw it those nights when he watched her by 
Alice's bedside; he had seen it since in the sudden flushing of 
her cheek and the falling of her eyes when he approached. 
And it was this discovery which prompted him to the act he 
meditated. Not both of them could stay there, himself and 
Marian, for he would not that she should suffer more than 
need be. She had recovered from her first and early love; 
she would get over this, and if she were only happy, it didn't 
matter how desolate her going would leave him, for she must 
Marian Grey 222 


MARIAN GREY 


223 


go, he said. He had come to that decision, sitting there alone, 
and it had wrung great drops of perspiration from his brow 
and moans of anguish from his lips. But it must be — there 
was no alternative, he thought, and in the chair where Marian 
Lindsey had once written her farewell, he wrote to Marian 
Lindsey’s rival that Redstone Hall could be her home no 
longer. 

‘‘Think not that you have displeased me,” he said, “for that 
is not why I send you from me. Both of us cannot stay, and 
though for Alice’s sake I would gladly keep you here, it must 
not be. I am going to New Orleans, to be absent for three 
or four weeks, and shall not expect to find you here on my 
return. You will need money, and in inclose a check for a 
thousand dollars. Don’t refuse to take it, for I give it will- 
ingly, and though my conduct is sadly at variance with my 
words, you must believe me when I say that in all the world 
you have not so true a friend as 

“Frederic Raymond.” 

Many times he read this letter over, and it was not until 
long after midnight that he sought his pillow, only to toss 
from side to side with feverish unrest, and he was glad when 
at last Josh came in to make the fire, for by that token he 
knew it was morning. 

“Tell Dinah I will breakfast in my room,” he said, “and 
say to Phil that he must have the carriage ready early, for I 
am going to New Orleans, and he will carry me to Frank- 
fort.” 

“Ye-e-s, sir,” was Josh’s answer, as he departed with the 
message. 

“Marster have breakfast in his room and a-goin’ to New 
Orleans ? In the Lord’s name what’s happened to him ?” ex- 
claimed Dinah, and when Marian came down to her solitary 
meal, she repeated the story to her, asking if she could ex- 
plain it. 

“Marster’s looked desput down in the mouth a long time 
back,” she said, “and I was kinder hopin’ he was thinkin’ of 
jinin’ the meetin’ and being baptized, but ’pears ’tain’t that. 
What you ’spect ’tis?” 

Marian could not tell ; neither did she venture a suggestion, 
so fearful was she that Frederic’s intended departure would 
interfere with the plan of which Alice had talked incessantly 
since daylight. Hastily finishing her breakfast, she hurried 
back to her chamber, whither the note had preceded her. 


224 


MARIAN GREY 


*Xuce brought this to you from Frederic/' said Alice, pass- 
ing her the letter, ‘‘and she says he looks like he was crazy. 
Read it and see what he wants." 

Marian accordingly tore open the envelope and with 
blanched cheek and quivering lip read that she must go again 
from Redstone Hall, and worse than all, there was no tangible 
reason assigned for the cruel mandate. The check next caught 
her eye, and with a proud, haughty look upon her face, she 
tore it in fragments and scattered them upon the floor, for it 
seemed an idle mockery for him to offer what was already 
hers. 

“What is it, Marian?" asked Alice, and, recovering her 
composure, Marian read to her what Frederic said, while 
Alice’s face grew white as hers had done before. 

“You go away!" she exclaimed, bounding upon the floor 
and feeling for the warm shawl which she wore when sittings 
up. “You won’t do any such thing. You’ve as much right 
here as he has, and I’m going this minute to tell him so." 

She had groped her way to the door and was just opening 
it, when Marian held her back, saying: 

“You must not go out undressed and barefooted as you are. 
The halls are cold. Wait here while I go and learn the reason 
of this sudden freak." 

“But I want so much to tell him myself," said Alice, and 
Marian replied: “So you shall; I’ll send Dinah up to dress 
you, and then I will come for you when it is time." 

This pacified Alice, who already began to feel faint with 
her exertions, and she crept back to bed, while Marian de- 
scended the stairs, going first to Dinah as she had promised, 
and then with a beating heart turning her steps toward the 
library. It was much like facing the wild beast in his lair, 
the confronting Frederic in his present savage mood. He felt 
himself as if his reason were overturned, for the deliberate 
giving up of Marian Grey, and the feeling that he should 
probably never look upon her face again, had stirred, as it 
were, the very depths of his heart’s blood, and in a state of 
mind bordering on distraction, he was making the necessary 
preparations for his hasty journey when a timid knock was 
heard outside the door. 

“Who’s there? I’m very busy," was his loud, imperious 
answer, but Marian was not to be thus baffled, and turning the 
knob, she entered without further ceremony, recoiling back- 
ward a pace or two when she met the expression of Frederic’s 
eye. 

With his hands full of papers, which he was thrusting into 


MARIAN GREY 


226 


his pocket, his hair disordered and his face white as ashes, he 
turned toward her, saying : ‘'Why are you here. Miss Grey ? 
Haven't you caused me pain enough already? Have you re- 
ceived my note?" 

“I have," she answered, advancing still farther into the 
room. “And I have come to ask you what it means. You 
have no right to dismiss me so suddenly without an explana- 
tion. How have I offended you ? You must tell me." 

“I said you had not offended," he replied, “and further than 
that I can give you no explanation." 

“I shall not leave your house, nor yet this room until you 
do," was her decided answer, and with the air of one who 
meant what she said, Marian went so near to the excited man 
that he could have touched her had he chosen. 

For an instant the two stood gazing at each other, Marian 
never wavering for an instant, while over Frederic's face 
there flitted alternately a look of wonder, admiration, and per- 
plexity. Then that look passed away and was succeeded by 
an expression of the deep, unalterable love he felt for the 
beautiful girl standing so fearlessly before him. 

“I cannot help it," he murmured at last, and, tottering to 
the door, he turned the key; then returning to Marian, he 
compelled her to sit beside him upon the sofa and passing his 
arm around her, so that she could not escape him, he began: 
“You say you will not leave the room until you know why I 
should send you from me. Be it so, then. It surely cannot 
be wrong for me to tell when you thus tempt me to the act; 
so, for one brief half hour, you are mine — mine, Marian, and 
no power can save you from hearing what I have to say." 

His looks, even more than his manner, frightened her, and 
she said, imploringly : “Give me the key, Mr. Raymond. Un- 
lock the door and I will go away without hearing the reason." 

“I frighten you, then," he answered, in a gentler tone, draw- 
ing her nearer to him, “and yet, Marian Grey, I would sell my 
life inch by inch rather than harm a hair of your dear head. 
Oh, Marian, Marian, I would to Heaven you had never 
crossed my path, for then I should not have known what it is 
to love as madly, as hopelessly, as wickedly as I now love you. 
What made you come to me in all your bright, girlish beauty, 
or why did Heaven suffer me to love you as I do? My pun- 
ishment was before as great as I could bear and now I must 
suffer this anguish, too. Oh, Marian Grey, Marian Grey!" 

He wound his arms close around her, and she could feel his 
feverish breath as his lips almost touched her burning cheek. 
In the words “Marian Grey, Marian Grey," there was a deep 


226 


MARIAN GREY 


pathos, as if all the loving tenderness of his nature were cen- 
tered upon that name, and it brought the tears in torrents 
from her eyes. He saw them, and, wiping them away, he said : 

‘The hardest part of all to me is the knowledge that you 
must suffer, too. Forgive me for saying it, but as I know that 
I love you, so by similar signs I know that you love me. Is 
it not so darling 

Involuntarily she laid her head upon his bosom, sobbing : 

“I have loved you so long — so long.’' 

But for her promise to Alice, she would then have told him 
all, but she must keep her word, and when he rejoined: “It 
does, indeed, seem long since that night you came to River- 
side,” she did not undeceive him, but listened while he con- 
tinued: “Bless you for telling me of your love. When you 
are gone it will be a comfort for me to think that Marian 
Grey once loved me. I say once, for you must overcome 
that love. You must tear it out and trample it beneath your 
feet. You can if you try. You are not as hard, as callous as 
I am. My heart is like adamant, and though I know that it is 
wicked to love you, and to tell you of my love. I cannot help 
it. I am a wreck, and when I tell you, as I must, just what 
a wretch I am, it will help you to forget me — ^to hate me, it 
may be. You have heard of my wife. You know she left 
me on my bridal night, and I have never known the joys of 
wedded bliss — never shall know, for even if she comes back 
to me now, I cannot live with her!” 

“Oh, Frederic !” And again the hot tears trembled through 
the hands which Marian clasped before her eyes. 

“Don’t call me thus,” said Frederic entreatingly, as he re- 
moved her hands, and held them both in his. “Don’t say 
Frederic, for though it thrills me with strange joy to hear 
you, it is not right. Listen, Marian, while I tell you why I 
married her who bears my name, and then I’m sure you’ll 
hate me — nor call me Frederic again. I have never told but 
one, and that one, William Gordon. I had thought never to 
tell it again, but it is right that you should know. Marian 
Lindsey was, or is, the heiress of Redstone Hall. All my 
boasted wealth is hers — every cent of it is hers. But she 
didn’t know it, for” — and Frederic voice was very low and 
plaintive now as he told to Marian Grey how Marian Lindsey 
was an heiress — ^told her of his dead parent’s fraud — of his 
desire to save that parent’s name from disgrace, and his 
stronger desire to save himself from poverty. “So I made her 
my wife,” he said. “I promised to love and cherish her all 
the time my heart was longing for another.” 


MARIAN GREY 


227 


Marian trembled now, as she lay helpless in his arms, and, 
observing it, he continued: 

must confess the whole, and tell you that I loved, or 
thought I loved Isabel Huntington, though how I could have 
fancied her is a mystery to me now. My poor Marian was 
plain, while Isabel was beautiful, and naught but Alice kept 
me from telling her my love. Alice stayed the act — ^Alice 
sent me to New York to look for Marian — 

“And did you never hear from her? Did she never send 
you a letter?’^ Marian asked, and he replied: 

“Never! If she had, I should have known where to find 
her."' 

Then, as briefly as possible, for he knew time was hasten- 
ing, he told of his fearful sickness, and of the little girl who 
took care of him — ^told, too, of his weary search for her, and 
of the many dreary nights he passed in thinking of her and 
her probable fate. 

“Then you came,” he said, “and struggle as I would, I 
could not mourn for Marian Lindsey as I had done before. I 
was satisfied to have you here until the conviction burst upon 
me, that far greater than any affection I had thought I could 
feel for that blue-eyed girl, and tenfold greater than any love 
I had felt for Isabel Huntington, was my love for you. It 
has worn upon me terribly. Look 1” And, pushing back his 
thick, brown locks, he showed her where the hair was turning 
white beneath. “These are for you,” he said. “There are furrows 
upon my face — furrows upon my heart — and can you wonder 
that I bade you go, and so no longer tempt me to sin? And 
yet, could I longer keep you with me, Marian? Could I hold 
you to my bosom, just as I hold you now, and know I had a 
right so to do? — a right to call you mine — my Marian — my 
wife? Not Heaven itself, I^m sure, has greater happiness in 
store for those who merit its bliss than this would be to me ! 
Oh, why is the boon denied to me? Why must I suffer on 
through wretched, dreary years, and know that somewhere in 
the world there is a Marian Grey, who might have been my 
wife ?” 

“Let me go for Alice,” said Marian, struggling to release 
herself. “There is something she would tell you.” 

“Yes, in a moment,” he replied; “but promise me first one 
thing. The news may come to me that I am free, and if it 
does, and you are still unmarried, will you then be my wife? 
Promise that you will, and the remembrance of that promise 
will help me to bear a little longer.” 

“I do!” said Marian, standing up before him, and holding 


228 


MARIAN GREY 


one of his hands in hers. promise you, solemnly, that no 
other man shall ever call me wife save you.’’ 

There were tears in Frederic’s eyes, and his whole frame 
quivered with emotion, as, catching at her dress, for she was 
moving toward the door, he added: 

'And you will wait for me, darling — ^wait for me twenty 
years, if it needs must be? You will never be old to me. I 
shall love you just the same when these sunny locks are gray,” 
and he passed his hands caressingly over her bright hair. 
There was a world of love and tenderness in the answering 
look which Marian gave to him as he opened the door for her 
to pass out, and wringing his hands in anguish, he cried to 
himself: "Oh, how can I give her up — beautiful, beautiful 
Marian Grey!” 

Swift as a bird Marian flew up the stairs in quest of Alice, 
who was to tell the wretched man that it was not a sin for him 
to love the beautiful Marian Grey. 

"Alice, Alice! Go now — ^go quick!” she exclaimed, burst- 
ing into the room. 

"Go whar — for the dear Lord’s sake,” said Dinah, who had 
that moment come up, and consequently had made but little 
progress in dressing Alice. "Go whar? Not down stars — 
’strue as yer born she’ll cotch her death o’ cold !” 

"Hurry — do!” cried Alice, standing first on one foot and 
then upon the other. "I must tell Frederic something before 
he goes away. There, he’s going! Oh, Marian, help!” she 
fairly screamed, as she heard the carriage at the door, and 
Frederic in the hall below. 

Marian was terribly excited and in her attempts to assist, 
she only made matters worse by buttoning the wrong button, 
putting both stockings on the same foot, pulling the shoe- 
lacing into a hard knot, which baffled all her nervous efforts, 
while Dinah worked on leisurely, insisting that Alice "wasn’t 
gwine down, and if thar was anythin’ killin’ which marster 
’or’to know. Miss Grey could tell him herself.” 

"Yes, Marian, go,” said Alice, at last in despair as she 
heard Dud bid good-by and scarcely conscious of what she 
was about, Marian ran down the stairs, just as Phil cracked 
his whip and the spirited grays bounded off with a rapidity 
which left her faint call of "Stop, Frederic, stop !” far behind. 

"I can write to him,” she thought, as she slowly retraced 
her steps back to Alice, who was bitterly disappointed, and 
who, after Dinah was gone, threw herself upon the bed, re- 
fusing to be comforted. 

"Three weeks was forever,” she said, and she suggested 


MARIAN GREY 


229 


sending Josh after the traveler, who, in a most unenviable 
frame of mind, was riding rapidly toward Frankfort. 

"‘No, no,” said Marian. *‘1 will write immediately, so he 
can get the letter as soon almost as he reaches New Or- 
leans. It won’t be three weeks before he returns,” and she 
strove to divert the child’s mind by repeating to her as much 
as she thought proper of her exciting interview with Frederic. 

But Alice could not be comforted, and all that day she 
lamented over the mischance which had taken Frederic away 
before she could tell him. 

^There’s Uncle Phil,” she said, when toward night she 
heard the carriage drive into the yard; ''and hark, hark!” she 
exclaimed, turning her quick ear in the direction of the sound, 
and rolling her bright eyes around the room; "there’s a step 
on the piazza that sounds like his — ’tis him — ’tis him! He’s 
come back ! I knew he would !” and in her weakness and ex- 
citement the little girl sank exhausted at Marian’s feet. 

Raising her up, Marian listened breathlessly, but heard 
nothing save Phil, talking to his horses as he drove them to 
the stable. 

"He has not corne,” she said, and Alice replied : "I tell you 
he has. There — ^there; don’t you hear?” and Marian’s heart 
gave one great bound as she, too, heard the well-known foot- 
step upon the threshold and Frederic speaking to his favorite 
Dud, who had run to meet "his mars,” asking for sugar plums 
from New Orleans. 

There had been a change in the time table, and Frederic did 
not reach Frankfort until after the train he intended to take 
had gone. His first thought was to remain in the city, and 
wait for the next train from Lexington, as he had some busi- 
ness to transact. Accordingly he gave his parting directions 
to Phil, who, being in no haste to return, loitered away the 
morning and a portion of the afternoon before he turned his 
horses homeward. As he was riding up the long hill which 
leads from Frankfort into the country beyond, he unexpect- 
edly met his master, who had been to the cemetery, and was 
just returning to the Capitol Hotel. 

All the day Frederic had thought of Marian Grey, and with 
each thought it had seemed to him more and more that he 
must see her again, if only to hear her say that she would wait 
all time for him, and when he came upon Phil, whom he sup- 
posed was long ere this at Redstone Hall, his resolution was 
taken, and instead of the reproof he knew he merited, Phil 
was surprised at hearing his master say, as he made a motion 
for him to stop : 


230 


MARIAN GREY 


‘Thil, I am going home.” 

And thus it was that he returned again to Redstone Hall, 
where his coming was hailed with eager joy by Marian and 
Alice, and created much surprise among the servants. 

^'My opinion he’s a little out of his head,” was all the satis- 
faction Phil could give, as he drove the carriage to the barn, 
while Frederic, half repenting of his rashness in returning, 
and wondering what good excuse he could render, went to his 
own room — ^the one formerly occupied by his father — where 
he sat before the glowing grate, when Alice appeared 
covered with shawls and her face all aglow with excitement. 

She would not be kept back another moment, lest he 
should go off again, so Marian had wrapped her up and sent 
her on her mission. Frederic sat with his face turned toward 
the fire, and though by the step he knew who it was that 
entered at the door, he did not turn his head or evince the 
least knowledge of her presence until she stood before him, 
and said, inquiringly: 

‘‘Frederic, are you here?” 

“Yes,” was the answer, rather curtly spoken, for he would 
rather be alone. 

“Frederic!” and the bundle of shawls trembled violently. 
“I have come to tell you something about Marian.” 

“I don’t wish to hear it,” was his reply; and, nothing 
daunted, Alice continued: 

“But you must hear me. Her name isn’t Miss Grey. She 
is a married woman, and has a living husband; and you — ” 

She did not finish the sentence, for like a tiger Frederic 
started up, and seizing her by the shoulders, exclaimed: “You 
dare not tell me that again. Marian Grey is not married. 
She never had a husband,” and as the maddening thought 
sw’ept over him, that possibly the blind girl told him truly, he 
staggered against the mantel, where he stood panting for 
breath and enduring as it were all the agonies of a lingering 
painful death. 

“Sit down,” said Alice, and like a very child, he obeyed, 
while she proceeded : “Miss Grey has deceived us all and it is 
strange, too, that none of us should know her — none but 
Bruno. Don’t you remember how he wouldn’t bite her, just 
because he knew her when we didn’t? Don’t you mind how 
I told you once maybe the Marian who went away would come 
back to us some day so beautiful we should not know her? 
You are listening, ain’t you?” 

“Yes, yes,” came in a quick, sharp gasp from the armchair. 

“Well, she has come back ! She called herself Marian Grey> 


MARIAN GREY 


231 


so we would not guess right off who she was, but she ain't 
Marian Grey. She’s the other one — she’s my Marian, Fred- 
eric, and your wife — ” 

As Alice was speaking Frederic had risen to his feet. 
Drop by drop every particle of blood receded from his face, 
leaving it colorless as ashes. There was a wild unnatural light 
flashing from his eyes — his hands worked nervously together 
— his hair seemed starting from its roots, and with his head 
bent forward, he stood, transfixed, as it w^ere, by the dazzling 
light which had burst upon him. Then his lips parted slowly 
and more like a wailing cry than a prayer of thanksgiving, 
the words; ‘T thank Thee, oh, my God,” issued from them. 
The next moment the air near Alice was set in rapid motion — 
there was a heavy fall, and Frederic Raymond lay upon the 
carpet white and still as a block of marble. 

Like lightning Alice flew across the floor, but swift as were 
her movements, another was there before her, and with his 
head upon her lap was pressing burning kisses upon his lips 
and dropping showers of tears upon his face. Marian had 
stood without the door listening to that dialogue, and when by 
the fall she knew that it was ended, she came at once and 
knelt by the fainting man, who ere long began to show signs 
of consciousness. Alice was the first to discover this, and 
when sure that he would soon come back to life, she glided 
silently from the room, for she knew full well that she would 
not be needed there. 


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CHAPTER XXV 


"the lost one has returned” 

She might have tarried yet a little longer, for the shack to 
Frederic had been so sudden and so great that though his 
lips moved and his fingers clutched eagerly at the soft hand 
feeling for his pulse, he did not seem to heed aught else, until 
Marian whispered in his ear : 

"My husband — may I call you so?” 

Then, indeed, he started from his lethargy, and, struggling 
to his feet, clasped her in his arms, weeping over her pas- 
sionately, and murmuring as he did so: 

"My wife — my darling — my wife ! Is it true that you have 
come to me again? Are you my Marian?” 

Daylight was fading from the room, for the winter sun had 
set behind the western hills, and leading her to the window, 
he turned her face to the light, gazing rapturously upon it, and 
saying to her : 

"You are mine — all mine! God bless you, Marian!” 

He kissed her hands, her neck, her lips, her forehead, her 
hair, and she could feel his hot tears falling amid the shining 
curls he parted so lovingly from her brow. They were not 
hateful to him now — ^these silken tresses — and he passed his 
hand caressingly over them, whispering all the while: 

"My own beautiful Marian — my bride — my wife!” 

"Surely, in this moment of bliss, Marian felt repaid for all 
that she had suffered, and when at last as thoughts of the 
dreadful past came to Frederic, he led her to the sofa, and 
said: "Can you forgive me, darling?” she turned her bright 
eyes up to his, and by the expression of perfect happiness rest- 
ing there, he knew she had forgotten the cold, heartless words 
he spoke to her, when once, at that very hour, and in that 
very place, he asked her to be his. That scene had faded 
away, leaving no cloud between them. All was sunshine and 
gladness, and with her fair head resting on his bosom — not 
timidly, as it had lain there in the morning, but trustingly, 
confidingly, as if that were its rightful resting place — they sat 
together until the rose-red tinge faded from the western sky, 
and the night shadows had crept into the room. 

More than once Alice stole on tiptoe to the door, to see if it 
Marian Grey 233 


234 


MARIAN GREY 


were time for her to enter, but as often as she heard the low 
murmur of their voices, she went noiselessly back, saying to 
herself: won’t disturb them yet.’’ 

At last as she came once she stumbled accidentally, and this 
awoke Marian from the sweetest dream which ever had come 
to her. 

^^’Tis Alice,” she said; ‘^she surely may come to us now,” 
and she called to the little girl, who came gladly, and climb- 
ing into Frederic’s lap, twined her arms around his neck and 
laid a cheek against his own, without word of comment. 

''Blessed Alice, I owe you more than I can repay,” he said, 
and Marian, far better than the child, appreciated the full 
meaning those words conveyed. 

But for the helpless blind girl this hour might never have 
come to them, and the strong man felt it so, as he hugged the 
little creature closer to him, blessing her as his own and 
Marian’s good angel. Observing that she shivered as if with 
cold, he arose, and drawing the sofa directly before the fire, 
resumed his seat again, with Marian between himself and 
Alice, his arm around her neck and his lips almost constantly 
meeting hers. He could not remove his eyes from her, she 
seemed to him so beautiful, with the firelight falling on her 
sparkling face and shining on her hair. That hair — ^how it 
puzzled him, and winding one of the curls about his fingers he 
said, half laughingly, half reluctantly: "Your hair was not 
always this color.” 

Then the blue eyes flashed up into his with the glance he 
loved so, and Marian replied by telling him whence came the 
change, and reminding him that she was the same young girl 
of whom the Yankee Ben had spoken when he visited Ken- 
tucky. 

"And you had almost died, then, for me, my precious one,” 
said Frederic, kissing the sunny locks. 

Just at this point old Dinah appeared in the door, which, 
like most Kentucky doors, was left ajar. She saw the position 
of the parties — saw Frederic kiss Marian Grey — saw Alice’s 
look of satisfaction as he did so, and in an instant all the old 
lady’s sense of propriety was aroused to a boiling pitch. 

Since Marian had revealed herself to Alice, the little girl 
had said to Dinah, by way of preparing her for the surprise 
when it should come, that "there was some doubt concerning 
the death of Marian — ^that Frederic believed she had been 
with him in New York, and had taken means to find her.” 
This story was, of course, repeated among the servants, some 
of whom credited it, while others did not. Among the latter 


MARIAN GREY 235 


was Dinah. She wouldn't believe ^'she had done all her 
mournin' for nothin'," and in opposition to Hetty, she per- 
sisted in saying Marian was dead. When, however, she saw 
her master's familiarity with Miss Grey, she accepted her 
young mistress' existence as a reality, and was terribly in- 
censed against the offending Marian Grey. 

‘The trollop!" she muttered. “But I'll bring proof agin' 
her," and hurrying back to the kitchen, she told the aston- 
ished blacks, “how't marster done kissed Miss Grey spang on 
her har, and on her mouth, and hugged her into the bargain, 
when he didn't know for certain that t'other one was dead; 
and if they didn't believe it, they could go and see for them- 
selves, provided they went mighty still." 

“Tole ye he was crazy," said Uncle Phil, starting to see the 
wonderful sight, and followed by a troop of negroes, all of 
whom trod on tiptoe, a precaution wholly unnecessary, for 
Frederic and Marian were too much absorbed in each other 
to heed the dusky group assembled around the door, their 
white eyes growing larger as they all saw distinctly the arm 
thrown across Marian's neck. 

“Listen to dat ar, will you," whispered Hetty, as Frederic 
said, “Dear Marian," while old Dinah chimed in, “ 'Clar for't, 
it makes my blood bile and he not a widower nuther 1" 

“Quit dat!" she exclaimed aloud, as the master showed 
signs of repeating the kissing offense; and, in an instant, 
Frederic sprang to his feet, an angry flush mounting to his 
face when he saw the crowd at the door. 

Then, as he began to comprehend its meaning, the frown 
gave place to a good-humored laugh, and taking Marian's 
hand, he led her toward the assembled blacks, saying to 
them: 

“Rejoice with me that the lost one has returned to us again, 
for this is Marian Lindsey — my wife and your mistress — 
changed, it is true, but the same Marian who went from us 
more than five years ago." 

“Wonder if he 'spects us to s waller dat ar?" said the unbe- 
lieving Hetty. 

Dinah, on the contrary, had not the shadow of a doubt, and 
though she had long since abjured a kneeling position, when 
saying her prayers, it took her so long to rise on account of 
her great weight, she now dropped down at once, kissing the 
very hem of Marian's dress, and exclaiming through her 
tears : 

“Lord bress you. Miss Marian. You've mightily altered, to 
be sure, but ain't none the wus for that. I'm nothin' but a 


236 


MARIAN GREY 


poor old nigger, and can’t say what’s in my heart, but it’s full 
and runnin’ over, bless you, honey.” 

Dinah’s example was contagious, and more than one pros- 
trated themselves before their mistress, while their howling 
cries of surprise and delight were almost deafening. Par- 
ticularly was Josh delighted, and while the noise went on, he 
took occasion to ^'balance your partner,” in the hall, with a 
young yellow girl, who thought his stammering was music, 
and his ungainly figure the most graceful that could be con- 
ceived. When the commotion had in a measure subsided, and 
Hetty had gone over to the popular side, saying, ''she knew 
from the first that Marian was somebody,” Frederic made a 
few brief explanations as to where their mistress had been, 
and then dismissed them to their several duties, for he pre- 
ferred being alone again with his wife and Alice. 

Supper was soon annoimced, but little was eaten by anyone. 
They were too much excited for that, and as soon as the meal 
was over, they returned to Frederic’s room, where, sitting 
again between her husband and Alice, Marian told them, as 
far as possible, everything which had come to her since 
leaving Redstone Hall. 

"Can’t I ever know what made you go away ?” Alice asked ; 
and Frederic replied: 

"Yes, birdie, you shall”; and, without sparing himself in 
the least, Frederic told her all. 

"Marian is an heiress, too !” she exclaimed. "Will marvels 
never cease?” and she laid her head, which was beginning to 
grow weary, upon Marian’s lap, saying: "I never knew till 
now one-half how good you are. No wonder Frederic thought 
that he had killed you. It was wicked in him, very,” and the 
brown eyes looked sleepily into the fire, while Marian replied : 

"But it is all forgotten now.” 

It did seem to be, and in the long conversation which lasted 
till almost midnight, there was many a word of affection ex- 
changed, many a confession made, many a forgiveness asked, 
and when, at last they parted, it was with the belief that each 
was all the world to the other. 

Like lightning the news spread through the neighborhood 
that Frederic Raymond’s governess was Frederic Raymond’s 
wife; and, for many days the house was thronged with 
visitors, most of whom remembered little Marian Lindsey, and 
all of whom offered their sincere congratulations to the beau- 
tiful Marian Grey, for so she persisted in being called, until 
the night of the twentieth of February, when they were to 
give a bridal party. Then she would answer to Mrs. Ray- 


MARIAN GREY 


237 


mond, she said, but not before, and with this Frederic was 
fain to be satisfied. Great were the preparations for that 
party, to which all their friends were to be bidden, and as they 
were one evening making out the list, Marian suggested 
Isabel, more for the sake of seeing what Frederic would say 
than from any desire to have her present. 

^‘Isabel,” he repeated, ‘^never. I cannot so soon forget her 
treachery,’’ and a frown darkened his handsome face, but 
Marian kissed it away as she said: 

'You surely will not object to Ben, the best and truest 
friend I ever had.” 

"Certainly not,” answered Frederic. "I owe Ben Burt more 
than I can ever repay, and I mean to keep him with us. He 
is just the man I want for my farm — ^your farm, I mean,” he 
added, smiling knowingly upon her, and catching in his the 
little hand raised to shut his mouth. 

But Marian had her revenge by refusing to let him kiss her 
until he had promised never to allude to that again. 

"I gave you Redstone Hall,” she said, "that night I ran 
away, and I have never taken it back, but have brought you 
in instead an incumbrance which may prove a most expensive 
one.” And amid such pleasantries as these Marian wrote the 
note to Ben, and then went back to her preparations for the 
party, which, together with the strange discovery, was the 
theme of the whole country. 





CHAPTER XXVI 


BEN 

Ben sat among his boxes and barrels cracking hickory nuts 
and carrying on a one-sided conversation with the well-fed cat 
and nine beautiful kittens, which were gamboling over the 
floor, the terror of rats and mice and the pride of their owner, 
who found his heart altogether too tender to destroy any one 
of them by the usual means of drowning or decapitation. So 
he was literally killing them with kindness, and with his ten 
cats and odd ways was the wonder and favorite of the entire 
village. 

The night was dark and stormy, and fancying he had dis- 
missed his last customer he had settled himself before the 
glowing stove with nearly half a peck of nuts at his side, 
when the door opened, and a little boy came in, his light hair 
covered with snow, which had also settled upon other portions 
of his person. 

^'Good-evenin’ Sandy,” was Bens saluation. *'What brung 
you here tonight?” 

"Got you a letter,” returned Sandy, who was the chore boy 
of the postmaster. "It's been a good while coming, too, for 
all it says 'in haste,’ ” and passing the note to Ben, he caught 
up five or six of the kittens, while Ben, tearing open the en- 
velope and snuffing his tallow candle with his fingers, read: 

"Dear Ben: Frederic knows it all, and we are so happy. 
We are to have a great party on the twentieth, and you must 
surely come. Don't fail us, that's a dear, good Ben, but come 
as soon as you get this. Then I will tell you what I can't 
write now, for Frederic keeps worrying me so with teasing me 
to kiss him. 

"Yours truly, 

"Marian. 

"P. S. — Alice sends her love, and so does Frederic, and so 
do I, dear Ben.” 

"I ’most wish she’d left off that last, and that about his 
kissin’ her,” said Ben, when, after the boy Sandy departed 
he was alone. "It makes me feel so streaked like. Guy, 

Marian Grey 239 


240 


MARIAN GREY 


wouldn’t I give all my groceries, and the ten cats into the bar- 
gain, to be in Fred Raymond’s boots”; and, taking up the 
kitten he called ^'Marian Grey,” he fondled it tenderly, for the 
sake of her whose name it bore. “I shall go to this party,” he 
continued, as his mind reverted again to the letter, ‘'though 
I’ll be as much out of place as a toad in a sugar bowl; but I 
can see Marian, and that little blind girl, and Josh. Wa’n’t he 
a case, though?” And, leaning back in his chair, Ben men- 
tally made the necessary arrangements for leaving. 

These arrangements were next day carried into effect, and 
as he must start at once if he would be there in time for the 
party, he took the night express for Albany, having left his 
feline family to the care of the boy Sandy. The second night 
found him on the train between Buffalo and Cleveland, and 
as the weather was very cold and the seat near the stove un- 
occupied, he appropriated it to himself, and was just falling 
away to sleep, when a lady, wrapped in velvet and furs, with a 
thickly dotted veil over her face, came up to him, and said, 
rather haughtily : 

“Can I have this seat, sir? I prefer it to any other.” 

“So do I,” returned Ben; “but bein’ you’re a woman. I’ll 
give it up, I guess.” 

And he sought another, of which there were plenty, for it 
was the last car, and not one-third full. 

“Considerable kind o’ toppin’,” was his mental comment, as 
he coiled himself in his shaggy overcoat for a second time, 
sleeping ere long so soundly that nothing disturbed him, until 
at last, as they turned a short curve, the car was detached 
from the others, and, leaving the track, was precipitated down 
an embankment, which, fortunately, was not very steep, so 
that none were killed, although several were wounded, and 
among them the lady who had so unceremoniously taken pos- 
session of Ben’s comfortable seat. 

“Wall, now,” said Ben, crawling out of a window, and hold- 
ing fast to his hat, which, being new, was his special care, “if 
this ain’t a little the imperlitest way of wakin’ a feller out of 
a sound sleep, to pitch him head over heels in among these 
blackb’ry bushes and stuns; but who the plague is that a- 
screechin’ so? — a woman’s voice, too!” 

And with all his gallantry aroused, Ben went to the rescue, 
feeling his way through briers, and glass, and broken pieces 
of the car, until he reached the human form struggling be- 
neath the ruins, in close proximity to the hissing stove. 

“Easy, now, my gal,” he said, lifting her up. “Haul yer 
foot out, can’t you?” 


MARIAN GREY 


241 


^'No, no, it’s crushed’'; and Ben’s knees shook beneath him 
at the cry of pain. 

Relief soon came from other sources, and as this lady seemed 
more seriously injured than either of the other passengers, 
she was carried carefully to a dwelling near by, and laid upon 
a bed, before Ben had a chance to see her features dis- 
tinctly. 

^Tretty well jammed,” said he, examining the bonnet, which 
the women of the farmhouse had removed. 

Supposing he meant herself, the lady moaned: 

‘‘Oh, sir, is my face entirely crushed ?” 

“I meant your bonnet,” returned Ben; “though if I was to 
pass judgment on you, I should say some of your feathers 
was crumpled a little; but, law, beauty ain’t but skin deep. 
It’s good, honest actions that make folks liked.” 

And, taking the lamp, he bent down to investigate, discover- 
ing, to his utter amazement, that the lady was none other than 
Isabel Huntington ! 

Some weeks before, and ere Marian’s identity with Fred- 
eric’s wife had been made known, Mrs. Rivers had invited her 
to visit Kentucky, and as there was now nothing in Yonkers 
to interest her, she had accepted, with the for4orn hope that in 
spite of Frederic’s improbable story about a living wife, he 
might eventually be won back to his old allegiance. Accord- 
ingly, she had taken the same train and car with Ben, and by 
rather rudely depriving him of his seat near the stove, had 
been considerably injured, receiving several flesh wounds, be- 
sides breaking her ankle. For this last, however, she did not 
care; that would get well again; but her face — was it so dis- 
figured as to spoil her boasted beauty? This was her con- 
stant thought as she lay moaning upon her pillows, and when 
for a few moments she was alone with Ben, whom she knew 
to be a Yankee peddler, and who considered it his duty to 
stay with her, she said to him : 

“Please, Mr. Butterworth, tell me just how much I am 
bruised, and whether I shall probably be a fright the rest of 
my days.” 

“Wall, now,” returned Ben, taking the lamp a second time 
and coming nearer to her, “there’s no knowin’ how you 
will look hereafter, but the fact is you ain’t none too han’some 
now, with your face swelled as big as two, and all scratched 
up with them pesky briers.” 

“Yes, yes,” interrupted Isabel, “but the swelling will go 
down and the scratches will get well. That isn’t all.” 

“You’re right,” said Ben, peering curiously at her; “that 


242 


MARIAN GREY 


ain^t all. You know, I s'pose, that six of your front teeth are 
knocked out." 

“Yes, but false ones will remedy that. I’ll have them made 
a little uneven so as to look natural ; go on !" 

“Wall," continued Ben, “you’ve fixed your teeth, but what 
are you going to do with your broken nose ?’’ 

“Oh !" screamed Isabel, clasping her hand to that organ, 
which, from its classic shape, had been her special pride. 
“Not broken — is it broken, true?" 

“Looks mighty like it," answered Ben, “but law! doctors 
can do anything. They’ll tinker it up so it will answer to 
sneeze out of and smell with as good as ever ; and they’ll sew 
up that ugly gash, too, that runs like a Virginny fence from 
your ear up onto your forehead and part of your cheek. 
Looks as though there’d been a scar of some kind there be- 
fore," and looking closer, Ben saw the mark which the hot 
iron had made that night when the proud Isabel had given 
the cruel blow to the blind girl. 

This she had heretofore managed to conceal by combing 
over it her hair, but nothing could hide the seam she knew 
would always be upon her forehead and cheek. 

“Oh, I wish I could die," she groaned, “if I must be so 
mutilated.” 

“Pshaw ! no you don’t," returned Ben, now acting the part 
of a consoler. “Your eyes ain’t damaged, nor your hair 
neither, only singed a little with the stove. There’s some 
white ones, I see, but they must have been there before. 
Never used Wood’s brimstony stuff, did you? That’ll keep it 
from turnin’. I knew a chap once with a broke nose that 
looked like the notch in the White Mountains, and nobody 
thought of it, he was so good. Maybe yourn ain’t so bad. 
Perhaps it’s only out of jint. The doctor’ll know — ^here he 
comes," and Ben stood back respectfully, while the physician 
examined the nature and extent of Isabel’s injuries. 

There was nothing serious, he said ; nothing from which she 
would not recover. She was only stunned and bruised, be- 
sides having a broken ankle. The cut on the face would prob- 
ably leave a scar, and the nose never be straight again, other- 
wise she would ere long be as well as ever, but she must of 
course remain where she was for two or three weeks, and he 
asked if she had friends with her. 

“No," she said, while Ben said: “Yes, I’m her friend, and 
though I want to go on the wust way. I’ll stay till her mother 
comes. We’d better telegraph, I guess." 

This brought the tears from the heartless Isabel, for she 


MARIAN GREY 


243 


appreciated Ben's kindness in not deserting her, and when 
again they were alone, she thanked him for so generously 
staying with her when she heard him say he wished to go on, 

‘Were you going to Kentucky?" she asked, and Ben re- 
plied: “Yes, goin' to see how Miss Raymond looks at the 
head of a family. You’ve heard, I s’pose, that Marian Grey 
was Fred’s runaway wife, and that they are happy now as any 
two clams." 

Unmindful of the fierce twinges of pain it gave her to 
move, Isabel started up, exclaiming: “No, no, how can that 
be?" 

“Jest as easy," said Ben, proceeding to narrate a few par- 
ticulars to his astonished listener, who, when he had finished, 
lay back again upon her pillow, weeping bitterly. 

This, then, was the end of all her secret hopes. Frederic 
was surely lost to her; the beautiful Marian Grey was his 
wife, and what was worse than all, her treachery was un- 
doubtedly suspected, and what must they think of her? Poor 
Isabel, she was in a measure suffering for her sins, and she 
continued to weep while Ben tried in vein to soothe her, talk 
ing to her upon the subject uppermost in his mind, namely, 
Marian’s happiness and his own joy that it had all come right 
at last, Isabel would rather have heard anything else, but 
when she saw how kind Ben was, she compelled herself to 
listen, even though every word he said of Marian and Fred- 
eric pierced her with a keener pain that even her bruises pro- 
duced. 

“I shan’t be in time for the doin’s anyway," thought Ben, 
when Mrs. Huntington did not come at the expected time, and 
as he fancied it his duty to let Marian know why he was not 
there, he telegraphed to her : “We’ve had a breakdown, and 
Isabel is knocked into a cocked-up hat." 

This telegram, which created no little sensation at the office, 
was copied verbatim, and sent to Frederic, who read it, while 
Marian, in her chamber, was dressing for the party. He 
could not forbear laughing heartily, it sounded so much like 
Ben, but he wisely determined to keep it from his wife and 
Alice, as it might cause them unnecessary anxiety. He ac- 
cordingly thrust it into his pocket, and then, when it was 
time, went up for Marian, who, in her bridal dress of satin 
and lace, with pearls and diamonds woven among her shining 
hair, looked wondrously beautiful to him, and received many 
words of commendation from the guests, who soon began to 
appear, and who felt that the bride of Redstone Hall well be- 
came her high position. Many were the pleasant jokes passed 


244 


MARIAN GREY 


at Frederic’s expense, and the clergyman who had officiated 
at his wedding more than five years before, laughingly offered 
to repeat the ceremony. But Frederic shook his head, saying 
he was satisfied if Marian was, while the look the beautiful, 
blushing bride gave to him was quite as expressive of her 
answer as words would have been. And so, amid smiles and 
congratulations, the song and the dance moved on, and all 
went merry as a marriage bell, until at last, as the clock told 
the hour of midnight, the last guest had departed, and Fred- 
eric, with his arm around Marian, was calling her Mrs. Ray- 
mond, on purpose to see her blush, when there came up the 
avenue the sound of rapid wheels, followed by a bound on the 
the piazza, and the next moment Ben burst into the room, 
holding up both hands, as he caught sight of Marian in her 
bridal robes. 

‘^My goodness !” he exclaimed. ^ Ain’t she pretty, though ? 
It’s curis how clothes will fix up a woman.” 


THE END 




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